Trapped!

I got into an empty lift outside our 15th-floor office at approximately 6.50pm. The doors closed and the shiny Schindler descended as normal until the computer monitors and recorded voice indicated we'd stopped at the seventh floor. *Someone must be getting on* But the doors didn't open.

I waited a few minutes hoping the program would overcome its glitch, then I tried the "open doors" button. No response. *Maybe they weren't properly shut to begin with* "Close doors" - nothing. "Open doors" again - still nada.

Not wanting to raise a false alarm, I made up my mind to wait a full 10 minutes. In the interim, I had a quick go at prising the doors apart by hand. There was zero give. I had a flashback to that unbeatable robot dude in arm-wrestling arcade game "Arm Champs II".

At 7pm, I held the emergency button for the required five seconds. It made an offensively loud beeping as I listened to a message stating my location, followed by the sound of a number ringing. *I guess they do it in that order so visitors know exactly where they are*

A woman answered through the two-way speaker. She was friendly, if initially unhelpful.

"Try pressing the lower-numbered buttons."
"There aren't any - these lifts are operated by consoles on each floor. We have security passes."
"OK, but if you could just try the lower-numbered buttons."
"There aren't any. The only buttons are 'open doors', 'close doors' and the emergency button."
"Right. I'll have to call you back. Do you have a mobile with you?"
"No."
"Then I'll call you on this phone."

*I'll be here*

She rang again soon after and I pressed the emergency button to answer. This set off an even louder beeping - stabbing my ears like the high notes of Ian Anderson's flute solos at the Jethro Tull concert I watched from the front of the State Theatre sans earplugs - and I heard the line go dead.

I pushed the e/b a third time (the volume had returned to being merely offensive). She was now a he.

"Hi. I'm stuck in a lift and I was just speaking to someone about what's being done."
"Yes, we have your details. The technician's on his way - he'll be there in half an hour."
"I guess I'll just sit tight then."
"Is there someone you'd like me to call, to tell them you'll be late?"
"No, thank you."

I won't pretend I didn't have any silly thoughts about overnight stays or lift-shaft fires in the next 30 minutes. But it was hard to get too worried when there was light, airconditioning and a distinct absence of hysterical screaming from elsewhere in the building. I concentrated on striking a nonchalant pose, leaning against the wall and reading - pulled from my backpack - Tim Powers' "Dinner At Deviant's Palace".

At 7.30pm, I heard a voice outside.

"Hello?"
"Hello."
"It's the lift mechanic - I'll have you out in a minute."
"No worries."

Pose and read, pose and read, hydraulic noises, insert bookmark, tentatively step forward...

The doors finally separated and I walked free...onto the ground floor! There was no sign of the technician. Curiouser and curiouser. *He can't be far away*

I stood there for a while, but no-one showed - not even a Saint Bernard dog carrying a miniature barrel of brandy to help me recover from my ordeal. Or Ashton Kutcher to explain I'd been Punk'd. Or Rod Serling to conclude it'd been a brief excursion into the Twilight Zone.

Beyond the eight lifts, at the front of the building, engrossed in his newspaper, the elderly night manager had no idea what had just transpired. I gave him a shorter summary than this one and asked if he knew where the mechanic was.

"I didn't notice him come past. He might have driven into the underground carpark and caught a lift up from there."
"Well, if you do see him, just tell him thanks."