Column: The Elevator

In last week's column I wrote about how much I missed my big green trunk full of collectibles from my youth. While thinking about the contents of the trunk I remembered one of the favorite books from my childhood.

It was a book about the 50 states, and I can remember spending hours reading it and learning the state capitals quite possibly before I learned cursive. I'm not sure I ever learned cursive correctly, but there was a time I could rattle of a capital quicker than most adults. When I was in grade school, we had a project in geography that involved each individual state and I was very excited because my book would be quite an asset. We started with the 13 "colonies" and it was quite perhaps the most devotion I had ever shown to a school project. Unfortunately, it was close to summer and I was spending way too much time outside after school and didn't complete the project on time. The day it was due I came up with an excuse that I lost the papers. The teacher winced and looked as if he wanted to scream. He told me I could have just asked for replacement papers. At this point I probably should have stopped with my lying, but the next day I found several of the papers in a corner in my room and rushed to complete them.

Rather than admitting what I had done, I for some reason told my teacher that I had found them in the alley by my house.

I will never forget the look he gave me. He knew I was lying, I knew I was lying, and it was an awkward few seconds as we sat in silence.

I would end up getting a very bad grade on the assignment and I was disappointed in myself. It was at this point I realized that rather than coming up with an elaborate story about how my papers managed to blow out of my folder and into the alley, I should have just been honest, or better yet just done the work I was supposed to in the first place. That would have been a lot easier, and I probably would have been just fine missing an afternoon of wrecking my bike or playing basketball.

It would be around 10 years later until I saw the same look, I received from my fifth-grade teacher.

I was a student at the University of Wyoming and the semester nearing its end. In fact, I had only one final left and for some strange reason it was at 7 p.m. on a Wednesday night. My class was during the day, but my final had to be at night. Anyone who has ever been to Laramie knows it is a cold and windy mess during the winter, so I was really not looking forward to wondering around campus in the dark and cold. It was about a 15-minute walk to the building, so I left my 8th story dorm room about 20 minutes before the test. I pushed the button for the elevator, and it was really frustrating once I entered because it seemed to stop on every floor. It was hot in there and starting to get really crowded. The elevators were in pretty rough shape, always smelled of urine, so it wasn't a big surprise when it started making weird sounds. It was however concerning when it stopped around the third floor. It was silent for a few seconds and then panic started to set in. Everyone on the elevator was headed to a test, but in reality, we were not going anywhere. I would not say I'm the most claustrophobic person in the world, but this case was different. After about 10 minutes I was about to lose my mind. After about 30 everyone was sweating, and it was really starting to stink. We had pressed the emergency button and we could hear them working, but it was like time stood still. Finally, after about 45 minutes they were able to fix the elevator and I ran as quick as possible to my test. When I walked into the room there was just the professor.

I explained to him I was stuck in an elevator and it was like I just told him I lost and then found my papers in the alley. He would not let me take the test.

I was horrified and had to have the dorm supervisor call him in the morning and I was finally able to take the test.

I guess it was probably karma for lying to my fifth-grade teacher. The next time I had a test, I took the stairs.