I had an experience today that may not seem like that big a deal to you – but to me it was about as terrifying as an experience can be that’s not life-threatening. This afternoon at 3:00 was the wedding of Cara Russo, a very nice young woman who plays percussion with the Kenosha Pops Band. She asked me quite some time ago to be organist and soloist for her wedding, and I was only too pleased to do so- excited especially at the prospect of playing Verdi’s mighty “Triumphal March” from Aida for the recessional.
I got to Carthage today a couple of minutes after 2:00 to figure out my organ registration and to practice with another singing who was singing something as well. By 2:15 I was all done with my rehearsal and had nothing to do until the start of the wedding (a piano trio was handling the prelude and processional) so I went down to my office to check on some things, to vocalize, and to relax a bit. (I was still a bit wound up from a big Beauty and the Beast rehearsal earlier in the day.) My big mistake was entertaining myself with some opera on YouTube (minutes become hours without me ever realizing it) and before I knew it the time was 2:54 and I needed to head right upstairs.
I almost ran down the hall to the elevator – stepped inside – pressed “3” as the door closed – and then sat there waiting for the elevator to begin heading up. But nothing happened . . . for ten seconds. . . . fifteen seconds . . . twenty seconds . . . thirty seconds . . . forty seconds . . . fifty seconds. . . I wasn’t frightened at first because the elevator has been a little bit temperamental lately, but nothing like I was experiencing today. After about a minute I decided to hit the “Door Open” button and take the long way up – but the door remained stubbornly shut. Maybe ten seconds after that, I felt the “bump” that happens when the elevator begins moving- but I didn’t really have a sensation that we were moving- or at least not moving up. It was more like the elevator wanted to move up but couldn’t. Now I was scared, and I whipped out my cell phone – thinking that I would call campus security and hope that they would be manage to be a whole lot more prompt than is customarily the case – and hoping that they would be able to extricate me somehow. . . or failing that, at least let the wedding folks know that their organist was temporarily indisposed. * * * *Actually, Cara – who is a real sweetie – would have probably thrown those badge-wearing bearers of bad news through the nearest window and then headed down to the bottom floor of the Johnson Arts Center where she would have proceeded to pry open the elevator doors with her bare hands!
Fortunately, no such “Bridezilla” action was necessary because the elevator doors eventually opened – probably about two minutes after they had shut – to reveal that I was still down on the bottom of the Johnson Arts Center. We apparently hadn’t moved an inch in all that time. But that was fine with me – just as long as I could walk out of the elevator and not have to climb up the cable in the shaft, a la James Bond. I happily took the stairs and made a mental note as I was walking. . . I would never ever put myself in that sort of position again. The only way I will ever get on that elevator again is if I do not have urgent need to be someplace within the hour – and moreover, I will make certain that I have a fully charged cell phone with me and at least one good book to read. (All I had with me at this particular moment was “Beloved Wedding Songs: Low Voice” and I don’t know how long I would have been able to entertain myself with that.)
I count myself fortunate to have had almost no bad experiences with elevators. Really the closest I’ve ever come wasn’t me, exactly – but rather more than a dozen guys from the Carthage Choir who crowded into the pint-sized elevator in Dresden, Germany and managed to get themselves stranded when the elevator broke down under the stress . . . just a few minutes before our concert was scheduled to begin. (The police had to be called.) I am glad that those guys couldn’t peer into my mind or they would have been taken aback by what I was thinking about their little prank and the exotic punishments I was concocting in my imagination to rid them of the notion that there had been anything even remotely funny about their little stunt. Fortunately, they survived – and there were too many witnesses around for me to throw them down the shaft – and who knows? Maybe that little misadventure fired up the choir and helped them sing especially well. I know that as I sang “Ave Maria” this afternoon with Cara and her new husband looking on, I was singing with a heart full of gratitude.
* * * my cell phone, unfortunately, said “Searching for Service” – and was almost out of juice – so it was not going to be helpful after all.