My Writer's Cramp Pieces

Send Me Home, Please!

Writer's Cramp:Write a COMEDY story set in a high rise apartment in New York City. Include an elevator attendant who is hard of hearing, a mistaken identity, a lost wallet, and an incontinent dog.

Please, New Yorkers, This is only meant in fun. Please, do not be offended. I love New York!

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Send Me Home, Please

         I’m a Californian. Where I come from, we spread out. Houses take up acreage -- out -- not up, but my agent insisted, and then the publisher called and politely demanded, so I was perched in New York City in an apartment that looked like a coffin standing on end.

         I know; quit complaining. I did have an agent and a publisher. Things should have been looking up, except there’s something awfully claustrophobic in looking up in New York City. I tried it. Actually. I saw a spot of sky the size of a postage stamp for two seconds , and then plop, city bomb patrol -- bird poop falling.

         Anyway, I know I should quit complaining, which is going to be difficult since this apartment looks out on the back of another apartment, and those same birds keep pecking at my window and making bird noises at me, and turning their bottoms up to salute me with them . . . But I’m sitting, hanging on to a modernistic-looking telephone because the police department put me on hold and then fell asleep. If they ever wake up again, I’m going to report my welcome to their fair city of New York -- a welcome which was poopier than my first look upward. See, right at the airport taxi stand, where taxis are as popular as prom queens and twice as hard to get a dance with, my wallet took flight –- probably part of the pigeon conspiracy to make Californians feel unwanted . . .

         So, I was feeling pretty irritated about being stuck in the apartment, and I was trying not to look outside the window – even with those pigeon buzzards cooing constant secret messages about the whereabouts of my wallet, credit cards, ID, driver’s license, traveler’s checks and $200 in cash. Herald Towers, they called the joint I was staying at -- pretty prestigious sounding -- guards down at the bottom, elevator guy who talks a blue streak of nonsense all the way up, and shoe shines -- if you trust the city enough to put your shoes outside the door at night.

          I was due at Random House in an hour. I had no idea where Broadway Ave. was from this stack-'em-up-high-in-a-sardine-can. Good thing I had my waistband traveler’s purse pressed against my side. The $500 hidden cash would feed and taxi me for a while -- even in New York City.

         I made my report to the cops, promised to stop by the next day and sign the paperwork, and shuffled out the door of my urban contemporary with full amenities in a safe-environment doorman high-rise. The hallway smelled of mildew and pee. Welcome to city life!

         Bill, the elevator guy, made himself look officious by punching every button on the shiny silver wall of the elevator. I wondered why, but I said nothing. One conversation with Bill had been enough to confuse me for life. The poor guy couldn’t hear a siren if it was clanging in his ear.

         On the ninth floor, going down, we picked up a delicious-lookin’ guy. Of course, I started wondering if he was married or gay. I didn’t have long to ponder it. He smiled; I smiled. We edged closer, and then Bill inserted himself between us.

         “I’m Phil,” Hercules with the toothy smile greeted me. A dog, a cute little Benji-look-a-like was nestled under his arm. I patted it. The dog licked my hand endearingly. His owner drooled.

         “No, there’s no bill for elevator service. It’s part of the rent agreement,” Bill butted in.

         Phil and I looked at each other, right over Bill's baldspot. “I’m Dot, short for Dorothy, I’m afraid," I told the guy. "My parents were fixated on the Wizard of Oz.”

         “Yes, we allow dogs. In fact, Phil here’s been having a problem wetting where he’s not supposed to. We may have to kick him out if he doesn't stop it.”

         Phil shook his head, laughed self-consciously and said, “Bill means the dog, not me."

         The elevator door opened and another woman got in. She radiated heat at “my” Hercules. Her perfectly-shaped body was barely covered by the black bikini she was wearing under a see-through hot pink pull-over. Her eyes slid over me like I was dog poop on the sidewalk.

         Phil ignored the woman's slathering eyes and continued our conversation. “Are you new here?” he asked.

         “Just passing through,” I told him, attempting to ignore Ms. Hot Pink, who was laboriously applying fresh lipstick to her lips, while she demonstrated a carefully staged roll of the eyes at our conversation.

         “Level Two?" Bill interjected. "You’ll just have to be patient. I have five more levels to get through. You can’t be hurrying me on, young lady.”

         Hot Pink snickered. Phil and I did the best we could to ignore both of them.

         By level five Phil invited me out for dinner. Ms. Hot reapplied her lipstick and latched onto the young jock who stepped into the elevator on floor number four. Bill lectured the jock about pretending to be Howard Cosell just because the guy said his name was Harvard J. Tell. The case of missing identification should have been hilarious, but the elevator had begun to resemble a cage, and I was fighting off a bout of claustrophobia. I could barely speak. Phil's and my brief romance started sputtering.

         Four stops later, the elevator finally arrived at the lobby. Harvard J. Tell, in his urgency to get away from Hot Pink pushed by Phil and me, jostling Phil's arm and causing him to drop his dog. Elevator Bill started in fussing about how the dog shouldn't be on the carpeting. Hot Pink started complaining about everyone and everything, and little Benji or whatever his name was, lifted his leg and sprayed one of her sandals. Hot Pink screamed and fainted right into Phil’s arms.

         I decided that was a perfect time to step out of the elevator. I told Phil I'd suddenly remembered I had an appointment to dine with my agent that evening and rushed off.

         Outside, on the way to the taxi, another bird spattered me, the taxi cab got caught in a traffic snarl, and I missed my meeting with the publisher. The rest of the trip was more or less about the same.

         I know there are many wonderful things to see and do in New York City, but when people ask me about my trip there, I think it's best if I just change the subject.


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