It was the summer of 1950. I was sixteen. I lived in a suburb of Philadelphia with my mother, father, and three older sisters. One day, a buddy of mine, Mike DeAngelo, asked me if I wanted to go into Philly with him. He had an uncle who was a jewelry designer and he wanted to pay him a visit where he worked. I rarely had a reason to go into the city and since I was always looking for new adventures, of course I said yes.
After a trolley and bus ride and a short walk, we arrived at the building. I wanted to explore the neighborhood so I asked Mike for the floor and office number of the company his uncle worked for and told him I would meet him there in a little while. About half an hour later, I headed back to the office building.
The lobby had six elevators—three on each side facing each other. In 1950 elevators had elevator operators and in my very limited experience the ones I had seen were all men—but not in this building. As I entered the lobby all six elevator doors were open and standing by each open door was a very pretty uniformed girl. None of them looked older than eighteen.
For what I am about to tell you to make sense, you should know that I was a bit shy at that age, especially when suddenly confronted with six beauties all at once. But I had no idea of just how shy and foolish I would soon feel. I look back now and chuckle a little at my confused and inept reaction to what happened all those long years ago. But at sixteen it was a pretty big deal.
So I had just walked into the lobby; saw six pretty girls in uniform standing in open elevator doors waiting for passengers to get aboard. I saw a couple of people going into an elevator near me so I headed for that one. But as I got closer, the pretty elevator operator waved me off and pointed to another elevator. I turned and saw an empty elevator with another very pretty operator who was leaning against the side of the open door with a big “get on my elevator” smile on her face. But what’s going on? The other elevator wasn’t full. In fact it only had two people in it. Oh well, what do I know? I went into the empty elevator and in the time it took me to turnaround, the very pretty operator had closed the door.
I remember clearly that I said, “Eighth floor please.” And up we went. But we didn’t stop at the eighth floor. I said, “We just went past the eighth floor.” The very pretty girl didn’t say anything until she stopped the elevator a few seconds later and opened the door at the tenth floor—a vacant floor. All I could see was a big empty room. When she was satisfied that I had seen the empty room, she closed the door, turned off the interior elevator light, and said, “Your move.” It’s true. This is nonfiction.
A little red light on a kind of control panel gave off enough light to let me see her leaning in the corner next to it. To say that I was flustered, confused, and totally inexperienced would sum it up quite nicely. She repeated, “Your move.” I can’t say now whether my mind was racing or it had basically shutdown. Whatever the case, finally, I said, “Take me to the eighth floor.” That’s what I said. Do you believe it! She asked, “Really?” And I kind of mumbled “Yeah.” She flipped the lights back on and down we went. I walked out of the elevator in a kind of otherworldly daze. Geez, what just happened? I think I just blew it!
Mike was ready to go when I arrived. He introduced me to his uncle and we left. As we approached the eighth floor elevators all I could think about was “Please let it be a different elevator.” My head was still spinning from that remarkable ride and I hadn’t yet decided whether I’d tell Mike what happened. But I knew exactly what he’d say if I did.
It was a different elevator! So far, so good. We got down and out to the street without any sign of that very pretty, audacious elevator operator. But I couldn’t hold it in any longer. As we walked toward the bus stop I told Mike what had happened—the whole story. And as expected—as any red-blooded, hormone rattled sixteen year-old boy would—he slammed on the brakes. He jumped in front of me and said, “This just happened? One of those gorgeous girls? She actually turned out the light?! She said ‘Your move?!’ And what did you say? ‘Take me to the eighth floor?!’ Man! Are you nuts?! Which one was she? OK, let’s go back.”
We didn’t go back. I couldn’t go back. It was done. At that moment I felt so pathetically embarrassed and confused that I sure wasn’t ready for a redo.
Did I want to go back? Did I think about it the next day? Or the next week? What do you think? One thing was very clear, though: I still had a lot to learn. And I did learn. And as I write these final words I have a nice, warm smile on my face as I remember The Elevator Ride.