The elevator shaft smelled of fried copper wire. Industrial pine cleaner. Evaporating expensive cologne. Fifty three floors above the Chicago pavement the steel box shuddered. It ground to a violent halt. The overhead halogen panels died instantly. A secondary relay clicked somewhere in the walls. The emergency backup bulb bled a bruised amber light over the mahogany veneer. Then the air conditioning kicked off with a wet final rattle. Silence rushed in. Thick and heavy. Marcus hammered the brass emergency call button. The red plastic cracked slightly under the heel of his palm. Nothing. No operator dial tone. No static. Just the hollow echo of a dead grid. He spun around. His reflection looked like a warped frantic blur in the polished doors. He tugged brutally at his silk tie. His three thousand dollar slate gray suit was already trapping the rising heat. Clinging to his spine like a wet shroud. Hey, Marcus barked. The shadow in the corner did not flinch. Hey. Radio down to the desk. Use your walkie. I have a flight at six. The man sat on an overturned yellow mop bucket. The name Miller was stitched in fraying blue thread over the breast of a heavy canvas work jacket. Stained with grease. He smelled of bleach and old sour sweat. He did not reach for the radio clipped to his belt. He did not even look up. Miller just stared at his own scuffed steel toe boots. Accepting the claustrophobia with the chilling practiced calm of a man entirely accustomed to very small inescapable cages. Marcus paced. Two steps left. Two steps right. The leather soles of his Italian wingtips stuck slightly to the spilled dirty water pooling near the mop bucket. He cursed loudly. He slapped the elevator doors flat handed. He yelled into the dead speaker grille. He paced again. The machine built for consuming corporate boardrooms was rapidly disintegrating in the dark. The temperature climbed higher. The stale air thickened into soup. Miller shifted his weight. The plastic bucket groaned. He slowly unbuttoned the canvas jacket. Peeling it off shoulders permanently rounded by forty years of hauling dead weight. He draped the thick fabric over his knees. His hands were mapped with swollen arthritic knots. He dug into the pocket of his faded denim trousers. He pulled out a battered rectangle of metal. A Zippo lighter. The casing was heavily dented. The chrome scratched down to the dull brass underneath. His thumb found the edge of the lid. Snap. Snap. Slide. The flint sparked wildly in the amber dark. Catching no wick. The rhythmic mechanical cadence echoed sharply against the mahogany walls. Snap. Snap. Slide. Marcus stopped pacing. His wingtips locked to the floor. The breath left his lungs in a single silent rush. Snap. Snap. Slide. The sound tore a jagged hole straight through two decades of pristine expensive amnesia. The stale heat of the elevator vanished. Suddenly Marcus tasted cold rain and copper blood. He was seventeen years old again. Standing on the wet shoulder of a pitch black Ohio turnpike. A shattered windshield. A crumpled bicycle lying twisted on the asphalt. The deafening wail of distant sirens cutting through the rain. He remembered shaking violently against the guardrail. Crying into his hands. His uncle snatched the car keys from his trembling fingers. An uncle drowning in debt. Smelling of motor oil and cheap beer. Shoving the boy hard into the tall wet grass. Walk away kid. You got a future. I am the driver today. Marcus stared at the old man on the bucket. The bruised emergency light caught the left side of his face. The crooked break of the nose. The deep jagged scar cutting through the left eyebrow. The family had completely cut ties the exact moment the gavel fell. Twenty years in a state penitentiary. Twenty years of absolute silence to protect a fake bright corporate future. The heavy brass lighter sparked again. Snap. Snap. Slide. Marcus felt his knees give out. The ruthless untouchable executive dissolved into the sweltering air. He dropped straight down. His knees slammed into the filthy waterlogged linoleum tracks of the elevator floor. The dirty mop water soaked instantly through his bespoke wool trousers. Chilling his bare skin. He crawled forward. The space was so small. Marcus reached out with shaking hands. He grabbed the lapels of his own immaculate custom tailored suit jacket. He ripped it off his shoulders. Pulling the sleeves inside out. He balled the expensive slate gray wool into a thick messy wad. He leaned over the battered steel toe boots. Marcus pressed the fine Italian silk and wool against the cracked leather. He wiped the mud away. Miller looked down and finally closed his brass lighter.
