I see you all got caught up in the sweets part. Alright, let's start with that. This happened some time ago. Like maybe 10 years or so. It was a nice sunny day in May. Those that you can get after a long winter. Still a little bit too cold, but in the sun, you can already sit without your jacket. It was Saturday.
The marketplace was full of chatting people, balloons and kids. The smell of fried food and the sizzling of giant pancakes was in the air. And I was on the call. Not quite working but still kind of free. I checked my wristwatch. I had a couple of hours to go before I would really be free.
Long hours waiting at home did not suit me much, so I had left outside. The warmth of the coffee cup in my hand kept me from shivering when the last reminders of the winter wind pushed from the sea that was glistening some distance. A couple of kids passed me running too close, almost knocking off my precious coffee.
“Hey!” I yelled after them, but they were too excited with their new helium balloons that they were hauling after them.
A woman in a nearby orange tent seemed amused when I sucked the spilt coffee from my fingers. I gave her a quick embarrassed nod of my boyish manners while my stomach rumbled reminding me that I hadn’t eaten yet. Only coffee is not good really, or at least that is what I have heard to be said.
I picked up my phone and pressed the button to get the screen awake. No missed calls or messages.
“You better stay like that,” I say to it while I am walking toward this giant building of red bricks. It’s also a marketplace. Built somewhere early 1900s if I don’t remember wrong. It is two storeys high with 3 or more exits. It stands on a corner of the cobblestone plaza where the outside marketplace is. On either side of the building goes two streets. The shortest street on the right, there, you see that pink building opposite it? That is where I live, on the 4th floor. That building and the buildings huddling its sides were built in 1901. What? You thought I have some shabby apartment? Pfft… looks are not everything, but I’m not heading home yet.
I step five well-used stone steps up and push the main entrance doors open just to get hit by the hustling and bustling that is inside. It is always like this. Full of people, full of voices and full of smells.
The building, The Market Hall, as it is simply called, has these nice little shops on the second floor. Kept by artisans mostly, where you can get all kinds of small unique trinkets. On the first floor, where I just stepped in, you have these food markets, like butcher shops, fishers shops etc. but also cafes and some of them you can get lunch, which my stomach clearly wants now.
From the left side, the shop closest to the door, Mark raises his hand to greet me. He is too busy to hassle me as he has 10 customers pushing themselves against his shop’s railing and talking simultaneously. Mark sells fish. Way too fresh sometimes for my liking, as they still move around when he flops them on the counter. He is famous for his fresh fish.
Mark used to be a fisher, but he lost his leg in some weird accident that he rarely speaks of, and his lost leg never stepped on the land again. It is out there somewhere. How do I know this? Mark was my dad’s friend, till my father went missing in 1982. I heard him tell about it to my dad when I was little. And just so you know, I don’t like fish. Not any kind. That was what I meant by him hassling me. It’s a friendly game where he always tries to sell fish to me and I always answer that until I know what they ate, never. Yeah, that lost foot thing really stuck in my mind for good.
I push thru people to get where I want to go and I finally flop to a bar stool next to a battered but clean counter.
“Hi, Mister Cole. The usual?” the perky young voice asks me. I have told Chrissy to call me Jackson, but she insists that it would be favouritism toward her other customers.
I nod and say “I’m on the call.”
She flashes me a smile and chirps cheerfully, “Bag it, tack it and wrap it, got it,” and she turns her back to me. She does not go far. That’s the beauty of this place.
I shake my head behind her back. Can’t imagine how she keeps in such a good mood. This Saturday seems to be busier than normal Saturdays.
“How’s your Mom?” I ask when someone pushes their elbow into my back while the crowd thickens behind me.
Chrissy’s head nods behind the kitchen counter that is in the middle of their little cafe. The cafe itself, on the other hand, sits cleverly between the two main isles making it easy for them to serve customers from either side.
“Busy, but she loves it,” she says, and I saw a glimpse of the rounder version of Chrissy leaning over to talk to a customer on the other side as she pours the hot steamy coffee into a cup. Something that the customer says makes her laugh, but she still does not spill the coffee. True professional.
Chrissy turns toward me and slaps a meaty sandwich wrapped to go in front of me. It’s still on a plate, just in case I do have a chance to eat it in peace, as is also a small plastic bag of colourful sugar-coated marmalades.
“What’s this?” I ask. Can’t say I am a huge candy eater.
“Promotion,” Chrissy says and flips the tag over in a little bag. It reads Molly’s Marmalade, with nice curly lettering. “New shop upstairs. The owner asked us to give these to customers. I think it’s a good idea.”
I do understand the struggle of these little shops so I say “I never say no to that.”
My hand goes to my wallet, but Chrissy shakes her head “Pay later” She half whispers and then she’s off. I change my hand’s direction and scratch my side. Not the best move, but hey, like I said, Chrissy and her mom are professionals. When the crowds get this thick, it also means pickpockets. They just need some hint to know where you keep your wallet and even my Duke-like form usually prevents these attempts. I have been robbed a couple of times.
“Thanks.” I raise my voice when Chrissy comes back. She just gives me a sidelong glance. Her mind is already on another customer, but I know she heard me.
I peel off some of the wrapping, ready to sink my teeth into a sandwich, when my phone rings.
With a heavy sigh, I dig out my phone. The screen flashes several times and says “Maude”
I don’t dawdle, Maude is work.
“Hi, precious,” I say.
“Hi, handsome,” A little bit of a sultry voice says back. Maude, and I used to be an item about 15 years ago and we still flirt a little. It does not mean anything anymore. She’s happily married and I… well, a loner, but this is what keeps us happy.
“What’s up?” I ask. Maude is the one who gets me the jobs. We work in the same firm and I would never call her just a firm’s central call girl. She is way better than that.
“A plumber needs your help on Badger Lane”
“ASAP?” I ask again. A plumber usually means water and water means serious damage.
“From Charlie’s voice, I would say Red Alert”
I laugh. Maude, like me, likes the movies and old series “On it. Warp factor 9”
“I'll log you in, but better make warp 12”
“And text me the address,” I say
“Done it already, Hon,” she says and hangs up. Before I get to put my phone away, the text comes thru. Badger Lane 14, in the East part of the City.
I grab the sandwich with me and push a little pouch of colourful marmalades into my pocket. I’m out of the Market Hall in no time and run to my car. The address is not familiar, but I know the direction. Badger is the giveaway. Animal-named streets are located in only one part of the City. So I start my car and head to the big streets.
It only takes me about 10 minutes to get to the East. Another five to find Badger Lane 14. I see plumber Charlie’s car on the sidewalk. “Plumbing is our game,” it reads. One of the stupid slogans I have come across, but I don’t hold it against Charlie who I now see is coming toward me. I parked close to his, hoping that no cops or meter maids were in the area. My car is not as business-like than Charlie’s, just an old pickup that I can keep working by myself and save on the repair costs. I open the door and reach inside to grab my utility belt. That’s my uniform. All my tools hang from it. Them being old and heavy, but luckily, my slowly growing belly keeps the belt up.
“What do you need?” I ask.
Charlie is a wiry man in his 30s, not the greenest one in the field. He has been in this business for some time, but these old buildings sometimes put him in awe.
“Need to cut the water, but I can’t find the bloody thing. The apartment owner says it should be in the basement, but she is like 80”
Despite Charlie’s desperation, I feel like laughing. He should trust his customers. If the old lady says it’s in the basement, it pretty sure is there. The look that the 4-storey building gives, it probably was built in the 1950s or early 1960s. And the old apartment owner probably has been living in it the whole time. She would know.
I slap my hand on Charlie’s shoulder and squeeze it reassuringly. “I find it and you take care of the leak, okay?”
Charlie, who now seems relaxed, exhales and says, “Okay. Good to have you here”
I nod and we head inside.
The entrance is very practical. About ten stairs up to an elevator. Well, that’s a surprise, the elevator I mean, and probably an original built too. But I am not heading up. Charlie though is, and when he pipes the last information about the leak being on the 4th floor, I start to see a reason for his panic.
I instead head 10 stairs down from the door, the elevator does not go to the basement, so I dig out my master key. One little prayer to the janitor gods that the key actually works, and I push it to the keyhole and turn it. The prayer works and I am staring toward the darkness. The air that flashes against my face is a degree colder, a little bit moist and strongly stony-scented. Nothing out of order in that. I stuck my hand to the left side of the wall near the door and move it up and down. Soon I found an old light switch and turn it.
Now I see the white plastered corridor, with several blue doors on its sides. Those probably are resident’s storages. The corridor leads left and right, but on the left, end of the corridor, I see the metal door which I assume is a door to out, so I head to right. Pipes in the ceiling are a good guideline, like in that dinosaur movie, and soon I come to a closed door while pipes on the ceiling keep going thru the wall. I use a little bit of magic with my master key and the door opens to me, revealing the valves. There are several, but I know what I am doing. With the help of my wrench, I finally shut the main water line. The pipe noises change immediately. The gurgle that the pipes make indicates their defiance toward my actions. As sure as I am of my success, I leave the door open and head back. I need to check that all is well upstairs. You should always be too careful with these old buildings. I shut the basement door, but leave the light on in the corridor. If I can, I will avoid pushing my hand to dark places, even though I know what to look for and even though I know with logical reasoning that there is nothing in there..more than the light switch, I mean.
I head up the stairs to the first floor. My busted knee hurts already. It really doesn’t like stairs and I really don’t like elevators, but I do need my knee to walk, so I push the elevator button. I hear a loud clank that indicates the mechanism releasing the elevator cart, and it starts to come down. As I watch thru, the iron mesh how the snake-like wire coils come down as the cart closes, I never understood why… why in the name of any god, do you need to see into the chute. Why is there always that chance? I mean, have you ever tried not to look? No, because your mind does not work like that. You always look. And how many times have you thought, what if you see something in there? Not that you want to see it, but still, what if? And you never do, but what if?
The elevator comes to a halt on my floor. Its appearance confirms it to be as old as the building. There is a metal cross-work door that has to be slid on another side after you have opened the mesh door. Only then you can push the button, but all that does not concern me than... I stare at it for a while. No lights? Why there are no lights? I mean, it is an “open” elevator. Maybe someone thought it does not need lights? Hell, but I would like to have one.
I shake myself. It’s just an elevator. At least I don’t have to worry about suffocating. I am not afraid of the dark, per se, but I’m not stupid either.
Still, I grab the metal handle. It’s smooth and surprisingly warm. I open the mesh door and push the metal grid door on its side. And let there be light. There is, after all, light in this elevator. My relief is huge and I empty my lungs. I step in, or more like squeeze in. I am a big man and this size matter thing makes me look up for the elevators allowed maximum passenger list. The tag on its wall says 2 persons and 397 lb. I never believe them. I am a little over 220lb. Hey, don’t judge, like I said, I am a big man. Duke was a big man, and no one judged him.
I squeeze myself onto the left side of the elevator’s wooden wall. I like wooden elevators. It gives them character, but just when I am about to push the button to the 4th floor, I notice that this elevator has a little more character to my liking, and it makes me nervous. Opposite me, on the wood, where someone could stand, there is a dark spot, starting about from my belt high and going all the way down where it gets widest. My irrational thought starts to scream warnings in the background while my real first thought is how that dark spot, if this would be a horror movie, could be just like that girl in that movie a year or two back. That dark-haired girl, who came out from the well and under the bed and… No. There is a perfect reason for that spot to look like that. Like how many people have leaned on that wall. Perfect explanation. So while my spine creaks from the goosebumps my skin has pushed thru I almost sprain my neck to see the wall where I am leaning and... there is NO similar dark spot there!!! I repeat there is NO FREAKING The Ring MOVIE GIRL KIND OF DARK SPOT IN THERE!!! Besides, whoever stands on the same side where the buttons are? NO ONE! While my brains scream again on this, I hear Charlie calling me.
“Jackson?”
And my brain just continues its dialogue. THERE IS NO FREAKING…
“Jackson!” This time, Charlie’s voice is more demanding. “Come up, I need some of your help in here”
That shooks my brains out from their freaking, but now my spine has decided to push the sweat out and I feel the coldness of the elevator wall in me.
“Ye-aaah..??” I creak while I still stare at the dark spot and I swear, it stares back at me! The black long hair...no, wait?! A pale yellowish hair in two ponytails on either side of the head, a pale ghostly bluish hue of skin, and white knee-length skirt, and dull red sandals with small flowers on top?
“What?! Are you coming?” Charlie’s voice sounds now closer, which he isn’t, but he probably has come out from the apartment and tries to see me.
The “girl” vanishes and the dark spot is there again. No, this… this is too much for me so I scramble out thru the grid slide door and push the mesh one out of my way with too much force which results in a nasty bang on the wall and a small part of the wall comes crumbling down where the handle hit. Immediately I hear a fragile, but angry voice from upstairs to say.
“Do not bang the elevator door,” and then a quieter mumble where I hear Charlie’s voice answer.
“Yes, mam. You are definitely right. I will tell him.”
I look at the open door. The light blinks out on a cart covering the dark spot that, to my relief, does not follow.
Shakily, I close the mesh door. Carefully. I notice the damage on the wall and I sigh. I need to fix that. Nothing is worse than an 80-year-old granny giving you an earful.
Ignoring my busted knee’s cries of pain, I slowly hobble steps up. On every floor, I try to avoid my eyes on the empty looming elevator chute. Luckily, nothing creeps up in there.
I get up on the 4th floor in pain where Charlie is hammered by our babbling customer. Hammering is figurative. I see Charlie kneeling on the floor and an 80-year-old granny almost there with him.
“You know, my late husband’s niece’s cousin’s husband is a plumber. I always call him, but they are on their second honeymoon in Tahiti, but he always turns it there, and I did the same but… what are you doing now?..”
Oh boy. So this is why Charlie needed me up here. I am about to become a “customer distraction”.
“Everything alright here, Charlie?” I ask. There is no chance to avoid the earful now, so I take initiative, like a good boy and say “Mam, I am Jackson Cole and..”
I swear that in that instant, that nice, old 80-year-old granny went as cold as ice.
“It’s Mrs Petterson. You were the one who banged that elevator door?” She interrupts me, and I can see how Charlie’s shoulders move like he is laughing.
“Yes, I... I apologise about that..” I try to summon the mid-century politeness in my voice.
“You young people..” Mrs Petterson starts, and I quickly put between hoping to ease the lecture I am about to have.
“Not so young anymore Mrs Petterson. 37 last month” No, that did not help when beady eyes stare at me thru the wrinkles and the bony jaw pushes forward
“And I am 81”
The chuckle that I hear is now definitely Charlie’s. I feel like I am in a trap.
“Yes, mam,” I say and lower my gaze. I can’t win this fight. In my defence, my dad always taught me that the customers are right. Even in small matters. And if there is karma, it definitely worked now as our soon to be staring competition with Mrs Petterson is about to start. Charlie lets out a yelp, and something comes flying toward me when he hurls it from the pipe he has been dealing with. Something wet, looking like a soaked dead bird, flops onto my chest and I take a panicked step back, which my overworked knee does not like and I twist it in that result that the pain flares up to my hip. I froze. Can’t do anything unless I want to take a dive down, so I now more or less stand on one foot.
Whatever Charlie threw at me is now on my feet, making there a nice little puddle. To my surprise, 81-one-year-old Mrs Petterson bends down with more flexibility than I have when I say to Charlie “We need to report this” and in my mind curse the paperwork that it means.
“Report what?” She asks
“Dead animals..”
“It’s not an animal” And her wrinkled face beams when she then unravels the wet bundle, revealing.. and I swear to god .. some kind of woman's undergarment, not enough lace to cover much, with sparkling sequins and red, soaked feathers.
10 minutes later, we stand outside Mrs Petterson’s apartment door waiting for the elevator to come up.
“She was a dancer back in her days,” Charlie says, while I try to erase what I have seen and the thoughts that followed after.
“Oh, I got that,” I say
“A quite famous one”
“Charlie...” I hadn’t been Mrs Petterson’s favourite, and she had not shared her story with me. She had kept her hard eye on me when I stood on the staircase. Luckily, it had been enough, and Charlie had finished quickly. After though, Charlie had got offered cookies, which I did not get and I did not hold that against him. Much.
Charlie burst out a laugh. “I am serious. She showed the pictures. I mean, she was a knockout. She told me she had been washing one of her old costume and with these old pipes it had just got sucked in, then she had done some plumbing herself, with bad luck,” Charlie chuckled and tried to continue mending Mrs Petterson’s cold shoulder act toward me “But I did not know about the feathers, that caught me by surprise.”
“I noticed” I brush my still wet shirtfront.
“Even?” Charlie asks.
“Even” I chuckle finally. It had been quite hilarious.
The elevator cart clanks on our floor. Charlie looks at it and then at me. There is no way that we both could fit in there. Charlie slaps me on the back. “You go. I take the stairs”
He knows what I think about elevators, but he also knows about my knee. He must have noticed my limping steps.
“Good luck,” He says and is already halfway down. I sigh and man up. I mean, it’s just an elevator and 4 floors is a pretty quick ride down. Now, looking back. I should have known better.
I open the doors and squeeze myself into a cart. I try not to look at the dark spot opposite me. A quick push of the button and down I go. And I do mean down. The cart jerks violently to a halt between the floors and my legs give under me. My sweaty palms gave a way squealing sound when my hands flew onto opposite walls trying to stop my fall, without results. I fell ruthlessly to my ass, while my boots stomp against the grid door. I breathe hard while I stare at my boots heels, which are now some inches higher than my head. This could be funny if I would not have seen what I did see. The spot from the wall steps in. And I do mean into an elevator. The ghostly pale girl in a dress and flower top shoes stares down at me. She is not that tall, but I am lying on my back. I barely breathe when she lifts her small hand to her mouth and giggles! I know, because I can hear her. I still stare at her when she lowers her small hand.
“I like you,” she says. “You are funny, but you should get up, they are coming” She eyes quickly to the grid door and my ears recognize a faint clawing sound.
That gets me into a panic that overcomes my muteness. “Who… what.. is coming?!”
The clawing got louder and thru my right butt cheek that does not lie on top of the hammer, which my left side is doing, I feel something moving under the cart floor.
“Get uu-up” the girl half sings and backs toward the wall. She seems to be afraid of what is coming, but she is taking this whole much better than me, who is now frozen and staring at the grid door between my legs.
Just like in every horror movie, the clawing keeps a second-long dramatic pause before the long-fingered bony hand with black claws pushes thru the grid while I squeal, not so manly and kick the hand. It attracts down.
The girl comments “Good kick” While I scramble up as the whole cart shakes from my effort.
“What?!”
“It will be back,” The girl says.
“I… What... That’s not helping!” I spat out. My brain tries to reconnect the thoughts to my verbal input, but it works slowly. My lungs, on the other hand, are doing overtime and I feel light-headed. Which could explain the girl and the hand with claws. I am hallucinating.
The girl stares at me and mouths “Oh boy” quietly and rolls her eyes. At some other time, the girl’s precocious comment would be funny, but not now. I took out my hammer. I need something that can be used as a weapon. Its sturdy handle calms me somewhat down.
“I am ready, you son of the bitch bony claw hand,” I mutter and take my hopefully scary battle stance.
“That could work,” the girl’s voice says and eats the way the inner Viking wrath that I had just summoned.
“What?” I ask in disbelief and look down to see the girl lean forward to inspect my hammer in my hand.
She shies away when I move the hammer.
“It’s iron. Old one” The girl says like I should know what it means.
“And..” I try to hurry her up. If this is vital information to survive from this, I need it now.
“They won’t like it”
I’m not ready to ask who or what they are. One thing at the time. Now I am just satisfied that I have something that works. I took my stance again and say menacingly,
“Good” I feel the girl’s eyes on me. She does not say anything. The silence stretched a couple of seconds too long and I finally gave in and turned back to the girl.
“What?!”
“It will get them mad.”
“But you said it works.”
“Yes, they don’t like its touch. You need to put them to sleep.”
“I don’t care to put them to sleep,” I spread my hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a monster and I do rescue animals when I can, but this is just too much for me. I am stuck while waiting for something to eat me or something!”
The girl looks at me patiently when my panicked and sarcastic outburst comes out.
When she decides I am done, she says, “And how are you going to get out?”
The clawing has stopped now, but the shuffling sound indicates that something is moving around in a chute.
“Well, there is a button…” I say and point toward the single row of black dots with numbers beside them 1..2..3..4.. I stare at what I see and say “But…” I reach my hand to go over the panel to get confirmation of what my eyes see. “There should be a button” I say again and then more high pitched “Where is the button?!!”
The girl seems to be worried about my sudden flailing. “You can always scream?” She tries to help.
The thought is preposterous. I mean, I am a grown man and men don’t scream. Duke never did.
“I am not going to scream,” I say to the girl, who then points out.
“You screamed earlier”
Don’t ever tell her, but I may have done it as she said. I did not have time to argue with her about it then, because now three bony-clawed hands shambled in my sight and drew my attention. With a surge of adrenaline, I scramble inside that tiny elevator. Stomping one of them and kicking the other with my boot, I did my havoc. But the third bony hand did get to me, though. I heard the fabric of my sleeve rip and I jabbed the hand away like a nasty bug with my hammer... It was only then I really did notice what the girl had meant. The flesh sizzled and boiled and turned to black. The hand writhed, retreating as the angry scream came somewhere below the cart.
I heaved air into my lungs, but the scream had really scared me.
“Okay..how do I put them to sleep?” I asked the girl quickly. I had an inkling that things were about to start to go really, really bad.
“Uhhm… Do you have sweets?” The girl asked. She too looked frightened when I burst not very calm adult like.
“No, I don’t have sweets! I am a freaking janitor and not a…?!” I say with desperation, but then struggle to get a mushy marmalade bag out of my pocket. It’s half torn open, and it looks really disgusting, but I shove it toward the girl.
“Will these do?”
She looks at the jumbled, messy little bag and then chirps happily, “Oh, those are the best ones,” the girl says, and pops the red marmalade to her mouth and speaks while munching. “These will definitely put them to sleep”
“So how does this…” I don’t get further when the girl rolls her eyes and picks up the yellow-coloured marmalade and throws it close to the grid door on the floor. Immediately the clawed hand comes out, flakes, and then finds the sweet. Like a coin bank’s worm, the hand vanishes with the marmalade. I stare and wait, and suddenly there are more clawed hands.
“Shiit…” I inhale and bang my back on the wall. I just threw the whole bag to them and they actually started to squabble. I hear the snarling the creatures keep when they fight under the cart. When no one seems to be winning, I step forward and aim my kick at the hands holding the bag. It does the trick when the marmalade bag finally drops into the chute. There are lots of clawing, snarling and shuffling when the creatures hop after it and then… nothing. The clank that followed a couple of breaths later made me jump and wait for the worst, but it was only the cart’s mechanism releasing whatever had stopped it earlier.
“That’s it?” I asked from the girl when the smooth ride continues and reaches the second floor.
She nods and yawns big time. I chuckle and think maybe the marmalade she ate is affecting her too, but I don’t ask.
The cart clanks to a stop, but the touch is light at the end. Have to say, people knew how to make elevators back in the days.
I push the grid door on its side and then open the mesh door. I take extra caution not to bang on either door this time. Don’t want to wake any bony-clawed hands, especially when I don’t have my marmalade anymore. Making a mental note to visit that new shop on the Market Hall’s second floor, I turn while keeping both doors still open.
“I... Thank you for helping me,” I say to the girl and feel a little bit stupid. I don’t know what she is and I have my old-time manners, so I’m not going to just blurt it out and ask about it. But I did see her eat the marmalade. In other ways, I don’t think she is.. solid? I mean, I did not bump her at any time with my struggle and I don’t want to be those movie morons who wave their hands thru the “ghosts” they see. I always thought that to be insulting, toward the ghost, I mean.
The girl quirks a smile and then says something, not a little girl like, “I hadn’t had this much fun since the 1960s. Careful with the doors” Before I have time to ask what happened in the 60s she melts into a spot and is gone.
I close the doors, this time quietly, and watch how the light blinks out. I stood there a while, hoping… I don’t know what I was hoping for. Or thinking. Too much had happened.
Finally, I turn and notice the damaged wall. Bummer, I need to fix that. I make a mental inventory of what I have in my car. Nothing satisfying Mrs Pettersson upstairs. I scribble the note to the board under the resident list and attach it there. Then I hobble down to the basement and put the bowls of the building moving again.
Later that week, I came back and fixed the wall. Good as new and I got a cookie to prove it. After all this years, still not Mrs Pettersson’s favourite, but working on it. I did buy her marmalades when she turned 90.
So that’s it. After that incident, I always carry a marmalade with me. Sugar-coated with real sugar and not that powdered one. I have now standing order with Molly, she’s the one who makes them. She knows all about Lily... that is, by the way, the little girl’s name in the elevator... and the bony-clawed hands and other things, but that’s for the next story.
So this is me, Jackson Cole janitor dash handyman, and this was the first chapter on my urban elevator guide one on one; Tales from the Elevator. Hope you liked it.