While we were all "enjoying" this past holiday weekend, some of us more than others, some poor dude's dead body was trapped in an elevator shaft in what I like to call, the House of Shields Building.
I guess in my naive youth, I thought soap operas had proprietary reign over people falling down elevator shafts. Apparently not, as this is the second (yeah, second) time in recent months I've heard about someone falling down an elevator shaft, or at least that's what a dinner companion claimed. He might have just been blowing me off, but that's one hell of an excuse for being late.
How exactly does one fall down an elevator shaft? Because if I was standing on the 86th Floor of the Spotswood Media Corp. Building and pushed the button summoning the elevator (or rather, had Tucker, my Rhodes Scholar, J. Crew model assistant push it for me) and the doors opened, I would not trustingly step my Manolo-clad foot into a sea of darkness and filthy cables, assuming that perhaps the carpet, lights, wood paneling and uniformed elevator operator, Mr. Honeycutt were all under construction. "Oh, Tucker, cancel my Friday reservation at Spruce as Oprah's in town and she detests their mixed field gree ... AHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
It's got to take a certain concentrated obliviousness to blindly march right into a black hole to certain death, much less on a holiday weekend when poor Tucker and I wouldn't be found for 6 whole days, our lifeless but finally entwined bodies ignored while you assholes scarf down your turkey with cheap beer and football you pretend to care about.
Anyway, be careful out there kids. And perhaps look before you leap...