A Heart Out of His Hands

I was early to the office that morning, which I typically would have been proud of had this been a typical day. I might have considered taking the stairs, too, had I not been skimming over some numbers on my phone that Carrie had sent to help me with a project I'd been assigned. But that's the thing about atypical days, I suppose: they are typical, and you're not really thinking much until they no longer have that familiar feeling and your circadian rhythm gets all fucked and you're wishing to God that you had made a different decision, praying that the unwelcome interjection won't too adversely affect your workload, which is just asking to be tampered with so your shithead-of-a-boss Michelle can report you again. The bitch has had it out for you since day one.

So I'm on my phone, and I walk into the elevator, and the service cuts out. But that's not the atypical part. What was atypical was the deep rumbling I heard in the elevator, which prompted me to look up from my bright screen that I kept refreshing, in vain, as I saw the number on the elevator: 43... 44... 44. We stopped moving. The building, though, had different plans.

It's funny, now, thinking about how death is portrayed on television, how the character's life flashes before his eyes, causing a complete change in said character's life as he realizes that he suddenly cares about preserving his presence on this shitshow of a planet. I wish I could say I had the same experience.

My near-death experience was my wondering if I were really about to be killed by an earthquake in an elevator with a person who I just-now realized was a coworker I ran into a few weeks back on the streets of West Oakland. Then the power cut out.

"Shit," I said, using the light on my phone to tap some floor buttons and press the alarm bell a few times.

"Was that an earthquake?" asked my coworker, who looked scared to all hell before the lights went out.

"I think so."

It was about an hour after the elevator had stopped—half of that time was spent tapping buttons and raising my phone to the top of the cab, as if that would do anything against this big metal box which would only allow you access to the world if it granted you permission—when I had decided to sit next to my coworker, who I honestly thought might have been asleep.

"Hi," he said.

I guess not. "Hi," I said.

"Crazy, huh? Never been stuck in one of these before." He was looking in my direction by the way his voice sounded.

"Me neither," I said. "Why are you talking to me?"

"Why wouldn't I talk to you?" It sounded like a serious question.

I laughed. "What do you mean, why wouldn't I talk to you? You know exactly why."

He paused. "Right. Hey, I never got to apologize. I'm sorry for that. And sorry for pushing you that night." He was no longer looking in my direction.

"You did more than push me, my friend," I said. "And I don't know why you're apologizing."

"Look, I don't remember what happened that night. I'm apologizing because I never meant to offen—"

"Don't start with that I never meant to offend you shit. We both know the only thing offended was your ego when you woke up that morning. And it wasn't a problem until you made it one and started running in the opposite direction whenever you saw me, which just didn't make sense."

In the quiet darkness of the cab, it played over in my head. I'd been on my way home from the library when I was pushed by some guy: I saw when I looked at him that the alcohol he had was getting to his head, further evidenced by his two girlfriends barely keeping him upright. I had every intention of simply continuing on until he called for me. Wait, I know you! He turned to his two girlfriends. I know him. He lives right down the street! I then noticed that his girlfriends weren't holding him up from falling so much as they were holding him back from me. I love you! One of the girls shushed him. Oh my God, said the other. To that he said, I do. I love you!

I smiled and walked away, looking back only to entertain myself when I heard him blowing kisses my way and making a heart out of his hands as his girlfriends practically carried him in the opposite direction, begging him to shut the hell up.

When I went into the office a couple days later, he was avoiding me with such effort that one could have mistaken him for a victim escaping his recently-incarcerated-then-released assailant.

"I'm not gay," he said after a long pause.

"I never said you were."

"I was drunk."

I smiled. "Ah, you're not into men because you only proclaim your love for them when you're drunk. Got it."

Pause. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Is that apology for me, or for yourself?"

Another pause. The elevator whirred back to life and I just about jumped to my feet, eager for 44 to become 45. I turned and stuck out my hand. My coworker's smile was weak, forced almost, a hello from a neighbor too busy keeping his wife's parting gift—her garden—alive to care about playing nice. She left him for another man.

I helped him up.

The doors opened to reveal an audience, their claps congratulating us on not dying. I smiled and bowed, pretending it was, truly, for our well-being, knowing they were really thinking, Damn, does this mean we have to work today?

My coworker grabbed my wrist before I walked out of the elevator. I turned to him.

"My name is Michael, by the way."

"I'm Gabriel."

"It's nice to meet you."