My Writer's Cramp Pieces

Stuck

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The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPs! #333655 by Sophy

Write a STORY (comedy) about three strangers stuck in an elevator: a born-again Baptist preacher, an atheist lawyer, and a mime.

Stuck

Clyde hated elevators. He avoided them whenever possible. It tempted the hand of God to put trust in a box that lifted up toward the heavens. Clyde trembled and cast his eyes upward, feeling his stomach churn.

Steven sighed. He shoved his briefcase into his armpit and glanced at his watch. The expensive glow in the dark, old-fashioned elevator gave him a moment of relief. That was all he could afford. Time was money. He pulled out his phone and rang his secretary, ordering her to cancel his next appointment.

“I don’t care if it is Mrs. Borbgon. I can’t make it, and that’s final. This elevator has been stuck for five minutes. There’s a crew of repairmen outside, but you know how they are, slow as City Hall.”

Steven hung up without any goodbye. He sighed, glancing at his two roommates of captivity. The one sitting on the ground, dressed like a mime was practicing his hand movements.

“Hey, you can knock it off for awhile,” Steven said, laughing. “We’re all men here. We won’t tell anyone you talked.”

The mime shook his head and gestured to his mouth.

“So, you’re hungry,” Steven snickered. “Maybe I have a breath mint.”

“Leave him alone, Sir. We each of us have our way of dealing with life. God understands that. He forgives us our many sins, but we cannot judge others by our personal values. That is for God to decide.”

“Don’t talk to me about sins, Father. I’m a divorce lawyer, mainly. Here’s my card.” Steven handed one to the man standing with the Bible and tossed another onto the floor next to the mime.

“Steven Wattsworth Elton III, Attorney-at-Law. The name is a bit overwhelming, sometimes, but I guarantee a professional job on wills and divorces.

“And, Father, I know all about sin. I’m for it myself. It brings in a steady flow of business. I could tell you stories that would make you cross yourself.”

“I’m a Baptist, Sir,” Clyde said, glancing down at the card. “Ah, Mr. Elton. Baptists do not genuflect.”

Steven shook his head. “Whatever. It’s all the same hocus pocus.”

“I beg to differ,” Clyde said, sliding the card into his white shirt pocket, and gripping his genuine leather, white Bible more firmly.

“You can beg all you want, “ the lawyer said. "That’s what I object to. All that crawling around on your knees stuff. You think your god demands that of you?”

The mime shot up and hit the edge of his right hand against the palm of his left. Then he waved the two hands in front of each other and flashed a peace sign.

“Get out of here,” Steven barked at him, noticing that his card was still lying on the ground of the elevator.

The mime scuttled back to the other side and cowered against the wall with his hands over his head, his knees rattling like vibrating pistons.

Clyde coughed to draw the lawyer’s attention back to their conversation. “It is possible that the elevator was stopped for you, you know.”

Steven’s eyes flared with anger. “Of all the nasty things to say.”

“God works in mysterious ways. Perhaps he wanted to stop you in a manner that would force you to listen.”

“Fat chance. If God wanted to talk to me, he’d choose a more comfortable location. I listen better with my feet up in the air, and a gin and soda in hand.”

“When was the last time you looked inside the Good Book, Mr. Elton?”

Steven sighed, flipped up the top of his phone and started dialing. “What the he…” His eyes slid to the man of the cloth. “What the heck are you doing out there that you can’t fix this stupid elevator? Would you like a lawsuit on your hands?”

Steven listened to the excuses for about thirty seconds and hung up on the speaker. Then he dialed again. “Get me the manager of Crescent Apartments.”

What followed was an equally short burst of anger and threats.

“Daa.. Uh, darn excuses. I’m already late for an appointment. I don’t have time for this.”

“You must make time for God. It is obvious you need Him in your life.”

“Look, Father, I don’t mean to be rude to you, but I don’t go in for that kind of stuff. The only God in this universe is Law. And sometimes you can even mount a good enough defense to escape that.”

“There is no escape from the final ending, son. All men discover that. Listen to Him. He is speaking to you. Listen.”

The elevator jerked upward. Steven wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “It’s about time. If I hear anymore of this, I’m going to plead that it was murder in self-defense.”

Clyde sighed. “How about you, brother?” he said to the mime. “Have you welcomed Jesus into your life?”

The mime nodded his head emphatically. He touched both hands to his heart, one over-lapping the other.

“Oh, God! Does this ever end?” Steven yelled out when the elevator once more jolted to a halt.

“It’s a sign from God. Get down on your knees. Pray and repent.”

“All right. All right. I’ll do it. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I forged my name on the company payroll. I stole the company’s Christmas fund. I falsified accounts. I padded my expenses. I channeled funds from the …”

“Book him,” said the mime. “We’ve got it all on tape.”

The elevator opened, and two burly black cops rushed in, grabbed up Steven Wattsworth Elton III, read him his rights, and hauled him off to the New York Police Station.

“Another case neatly packaged,” said the mime.

“Sure enough,” answered Clyde, ripping off his pastor’s collar.