I attended a crowded Friday evening event on the fourth floor of a newly-remodeled, century-old building. On the way up, it felt novel to be riding a high-tech elevator in a building that had been there for over a century. After I had been noshing a while, a startled staff member quietly approached and said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but the elevator has broken.”
Internally, I screamed, but calmly instructed her, “We’re going to need the fire department, and quickly.” Suddenly anxious, I sat there puzzled. How were they going to get me and my 300-pound power chair down the narrow flight of stairs in an historical building? The firefighters’ best solution was to load me into an office chair and carry me down. The only redeeming aspect was that one of the firefighters was gorgeous.
As the two men clamped their hands tightly to the corners of my seat, I shut my eyes and took my mind off the perilous situation by imagining my future with my hunky new firefighter friend. I peeked to see our progress. What I saw, instead, were my dangling legs forcefully swinging like pendulums with each step. First, they rocked up and under me, and then they extended out to squarely and repeatedly kick my handsome rescuer in the “family jewels.”
—Ella Vader Trubble