The
trip downtown, though short in distance, seemed to take an eternity. It was slow
motion city. Neither Bob J. nor I had much to say. Both of us were thinking
about how Greg could have been injured so seriously on an elevator that was
used every day. Our silence didn’t make the journey shorter or more
comfortable.
The
building was locked and the lights were off. We had considerable difficulty
finding the light switches in the warehouse where the cutting machine, bindery,
and elevators were located. During the typical work week the paper handlers’
morning shift arrived long before we did, so all the lights were on. And we
left long before the night shift so we were completely unfamiliar with how to
turn on the damn lights. We felt like idiots, stumbling around in the dark, not
knowing such an elementary thing about your workplace. I was certain that Bob J.
felt the same way.
When
we finally succeeded in finding the switches and getting the lights on, we
found another problem. The old hydraulic elevator was down another level, in
the basement and its electrical supply was off. That caused another hunt in the
dark, this time in the stygian gloom of the basement. After ten frustrating
minutes Bob J. gave up and went upstairs in disgust, cursing the fact that the
dumbest paper handler could have had the place operational in seconds while we
sales and management types were still groping around in the dark, unable to
find our asses with either hand. It was more than a little funny but Jorgee
hardly in the mood to appreciate the humor.
Finally,
I had a brainstorm. Instead of looking around the outside of the elevator, I
raised the wooden gate, stepped inside and looked on the inside wall. The dim
light filtering down the elevator shaft from the first floor provided just
enough illumination for me to spot an electrical switch on the brick wall next
to the hydraulic cables. In seconds I had the elevator up on the first floor. And
yelled for Jorgee.
“Hey,
Jorgee. I got it. Come on.”
He
emerged from the toilet, zipping his fly. Holding a large flashlight under his
arm. He stood silently, looking the old elevator up and down with a great deal
of suspicion. “You know how to work this thing?”
“I’ve
never operated it myself but I’ve been on it many times with Willy and Jess
[Note: two of the paper handlers]. For Christ’s sake, you big pussy. Get on.
It’s not going to crash or anything like that.”
“Don’t
give me that shit. Can you run it or not?” He was really skittish.
“Of
course I can. It’s actually pretty easy.” I was far from being as confident as
I may have seemed but my curiosity was much stronger than whatever trepidation
I felt. Besides, even then I believed Greg had somehow brought on the accident
himself, by doing an as of yet unknown foolish act. Which I was not about to
do, under any circumstance. But the pit of my stomach was heaving, despite my
outward resolve and nonchalance.
Before
continuing with the story, it is necessary to describe the elevator itself,
which was of the hydraulic variety, operated by pulling on one of two metal
cables that ran vertically along the interior of the shaft. A sharp downward
yank on the first steel cable started the elevator up. To stop the upward
movement, you grabbed the other cable and held on. A hard down pull on the
second cable sent the car down the shaft. It was a simple hydraulic (oil)
machine left over from an earlier and more primitive industrial era, circa 1915
to 1925. It advantages were that it was very inexpensive to operate, could
carry immense weight without failing, and was extremely expensive to replace,
which was the real reason for its longevity. Our building was no longer
competitive as a warehouse so the owner, Washington University
Physically,
the elevator was of the simplest construction. Its only solid component was the
floor, which was made of thick, welded steel plates fastened to an underlying
framework of steel beams. The three walls and roof were chain link fencing
supported by a steel framework and braces. A number of flattened cardboard
boxes had been placed over the fencing overhead to give the impression of a
roof and to catch dust and debris falling from the shaft. The elevator itself had
no doors. And that was more than somewhat disconcerting to anyone who rode it
the first time. Each floor had two wooden doors at the opening to the elevator
shaft. Those doors were much like the wooden slats used for picket fences. They
were spaced several inches apart and were positioned vertically. When operated,
one door moved up and the other down so the elevator or a particular floor
could be accessed. However, those doors were not safety doors because the
elevator could and would operate even though the doors on any floor were open.
It was the responsibility of whoever operated the elevators to close the doors
when activating the elevator. Yeah. Can anyone out there spell S-A-F-E-T-Y H-A-Z-A-R-D?
Back
to Jorgee, who stepped gingerly into the elevator. It swayed slightly, creaking
ominously enough to make both of us start with apprehension. As he pointed the
flashlight up the shaft, looking for what I’ll never know, I reached out and
jabbed him hard in the ribs, and yelled at the same time: “HEY!”
It
scared the living shit out of him. He threw his hands up and jumped straight up
in the air. The flashlight went bouncing across the floor. “Jesus, fuck!” he
screamed. “You stupid cocksucker! Don’t do that!” He picked up the flashlight
to see if it still worked. It did. I was laughing so hard I thought I might
piss in my pants. I sagged against the side of the elevator, my knees suddenly
weak, laughing hysterically. He looked totally ridiculous, literally shaking in
his boots. Yeah, it was dumb but we both needed to release the tension that had
been building up. It was simply Jorgee’s misfortune to have given me the right
opening.
“Come
on, you wimp,” I said. “Shine your flashlight in the wall. Let’s get this over
with.”
I tugged
gently on the cable. The car bounced slightly and then began its slow ascent up
the shaft. The light from the single bulb hanging overhead in the cage was
barely strong enough to illuminate the walls but the flashlight beam enabled us
to search for marks on the old bricks.
We
found nothing significant between the first floor and the second. And nothing
on the second floor except a large piece of cardboard lying immediately in
front of the elevator door. I stopped the car, opened the doors and we got out.
Despite the sunlight streaming through the windows, Jorgee directed the
flashlight beam onto the cardboard, letting it stop on two small dark spots.
A
strange expression on his face made me ask, “What? Something wrong?”
“This
is where he was when we found him. Laying right there. Right where those blood
spots are.”
I
looked at the two small patches of dried blood. They were so small yet so
important. “That’s it? That’s all the blood?” I couldn’t believe there wasn’t a
huge pool of blood somewhere. I mean, he had been seriously injured and I had
expected a lot more evidence of that.
“That’s
it. He was right there, trying to stand up when I got here.”
“Jesus!
He was trying to get up?”
“Yeah,
he was. I made him lay down on his back but he was in a lot of pain and kept
trying to move. It must have been from the collapsed lung.”
“What
about his mid-section? Wasn’t that bothering him?”
“No.
He even said that he couldn’t feel anything around his stomach. It was numb.”
We
stood for a minute in silence, just staring at the cardboard, as if waiting for
it to tell us what had happened. I couldn’t stand the thought of Greg lying
there, twisting in agony.
“Come
on, let’s go.” I walked back to the elevator. Jorgee followed slowly. Although
I didn’t look at him directly I knew he was wiping tears from his eyes. Neither
of us was a tough as we thought.
From
the second floor to the fifth we searched carefully, silently. The faint groans
of the elevator the only sounds. I stopped the car at the fifth floor.
“He
must have gotten off here,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because
this is where the paper samples were. The ones that he needed He was looking
for three or four colors of that super glossy stuff from Finland
Bob
J. started to walk out of the car but I grabbed his arm to stop him. “Hold it.
We haven’t seen any marks on the interior walls yet. Whatever happened, it
wasn’t here. Let’s go up to the sixth floor and see if there’s anything out of
the ordinary up there.” I started the elevator and immediately grabbed the
other cable to stop it.
The
elevator lurched and Jorgee looked at me strangely. “What?”
“Did
you find any of the Mirri samples of the second floor?”
“No.”
“Were
they on the elevator?” I knew immediately I was on to something.
“No.
There was nothing in here. Why?”
“How
about the bottom of the elevator shaft? Maybe they fell down there.”
“No.
I had Topper check last night. Nothing’s down there except oil and dirt.” He frowned
and shot me his pseudo-pissed off look. “You gonna tell me what’s going on or
do I have to guess.”
“I
don’t think Greg ever found the Mirri samples. Whatever happened, happened
before he got them.”
Jorgee
stood there staring at me without saying a word. Then he slowly nodded. “Maybe.
You might be right.”
“My
guess is that Greg went up to the sixth floor by mistake, thinking that’s where
the Mirri was, and never got to five.”
“Could
be. Let’s check it out.” He nodded up at the floor above.
I
restarted the elevator and we lurched upward. About one fourth of the way up Jorgee’s
flashlight beam caused something on the top of the fifth floor elevator door to
sparkle. The elevator seemed to stop of its own accord. At least I have no
memory of grabbing the cable to bring it to a halt.
Jorgee
stepped forward, hesitating for a moment. I was right behind him and knelt down
to see better. The beam of light danced across the sparkling metal. It looked
exactly a tiny flattened metal donut. I had no idea why there was such a sick
expression on Jorgee’s face.
“What
is it?” I asked.
“Looks
like an islet from Greg’s tennis shoe,” he said softly, carefully reaching
forward to retrieve the piece from the wooden frame. He turned it over in his
fingers. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“You
sure?” I asked, my stomach suddenly active. All at once I didn’t want to see
more about the incident. Or know more. I felt like I wanted to run home to my
mother’s comforting arms, to hide under the covers. We stood looking at each
other, not saying a word.
The
elevator lurched upward, responding to my gentle pull. Inch by slow inch we
crept toward the sixth floor, our eyes glued to the track of the flashlight
beam as it swept across the brick wall. And suddenly, it was right there, the
first physical signs of something well out of the ordinary. Two parallel,
bright brick-orange scrapes in the old wall headed vertically up the shaft
toward the sixth floor. About one inch wide, they were a little over two feet apart.
They stopped approximately four or five inches beneath the metal floor lip that
jutted into the shaft. Light from the pitiless beam illuminated fresh metal
gouge marks on the floor lip. They stood out as bright scars from the older,
rusted marks that covered the metal lip.
I
stopped the car. We stood looking at the marks for a long time. Neither of us
spoke our terrible thoughts. We knew it had happened right here. I restarted
the elevator and slowly we climbed to the sixth floor. We got out, surveying
the area around the open door carefully. But failed to notice anything out of
the ordinary. There were no signs that Greg had been on that level late Friday
afternoon.
Jorgee
and I walked slowly back to the elevator but stopped before getting back into
the car. Without comment we examined the juncture of the elevator floor and the
sixth floor lip.
Without
looking up, Jorgee finally broke the heavy silence. “He couldn’t have been
caught between the elevator and the floor. The space is too narrow.”
“No,”
I agreed. “There’s less than an inch separating the two. If he had been holding
on to the floor, half in and half out of the elevator, this metal lip would
have cut him in two.” I pushed the elevator floor with my foot, trying to see
if it would move backwards in relation to the metal lip. It didn’t. I looked at
J. “Plus there’s no way to get the elevator up higher since the sixth floor is
the end of the line.”
“Shit,
then where could he have been?” The question was asked out of sure frustration.
Neither of us had an answer.
We
stepped back into the car and began our slow journey down to the first floor.
As we descended our eyes were pulled first to the horrible gouges in metal lip
and then to the deep scrapes in the brick wall. Without warning I grabbed the
elevator cable, jerking it to a sudden halt.
“Goddammit!
What the fuck are you doing?” This time J. was really pissed off.
“Shine
your light up there,” I pointed. “There. On the horizontal steel roof frame.
Look how it meets the floor lip.”
He immediately
forgot his anger. The light danced up the bricks to the dirty black bar that
formed the horizontal support for the roof fencing.
“How
much room is up there. Between the lip and the roof cage?” I asked.
“I’m
not sure. Maybe five or six inches.”
“Looks
less than that to me. We’re going back up.” I stepped out onto the sixth floor,
flashlight in hand. “All right,” I told him. “Take the elevator down slowly.
I’ll tell you when to stop.”
The
car creaked downward at a snail’s pace. My eyes were glued to the descending
steel roof frame. When it was almost exactly flush with the floor lip I told Jorgee
to stop. I knelt to inspect the frame.
“How
wide is the opening?” J. called, his voice soundly distinctly sepulchral as it
echoed in the shaft.
“Three
and a half inches, max,” I answered quietly, feeling sick enough to vomit. On
the top and front of the steel roof frame were bright yellow scratches and
metal flakes. “Bring it up a foot or two. But no more than that.”
“What
do you see?”
As
the top of the elevator car came about waist high to me, J. brought it to a
quick stop. If I repeat myself here, please forgive me, but some additional
explanation is required so Readers can understand this next part. The roof of
the elevator car was formed by chain link fencing attached to a frame of
horizontal steel bars. The fencing, in turn, was covered by old cardboard boxes
that had been cut apart and laid flat. Their sole function was to catch the
grunge falling in the elevator shaft and prevent it from ruining the top sheets
of the paper that was being moved to the first floor for cutting and shipment
to a client. And also to protect passengers from being splattered with that
same oily crap.
I
reasoned that if Greg had grabbed onto the top of the elevator cage the oily
dirt covering the cardboard should have been disturbed. I looked carefully but
it didn’t take an engineer or an accident investigator to see that the dirt had
recently been scraped away. Especially in the vicinity of the metal scratches
on the roof frame and the floor lip.
“Come
on, what do you see?” Jorgee asked impatiently.
“Was
Greg wearing a belt buckle that night?”
“Yeah.
A brass buckle. Why?” His head appeared at my feet as the elevator rose slowly.
“There
are a lot of fresh scratches and metal flakes on the roof frame,” I said
softly.
“Jesus,
when I found him his buckle was broken into three or four pieces.”
“What
happened to it?”
“I
threw it in the trash downstairs. I’m sure it was picked up last night.”
“Shit!”
Though why I was so upset about the belt buckle I still don’t know. I stepped
into the car and slowly took it down the shaft so Jorgee could see the top of
the cage. He gently touched the scratches and then the flakes. Even in the dim
light I could follow the tiny shower of sparking pieces of metal as they fell.
“They
look fresh. Really fresh.” His tone was very subdued.
On
the way down to the first floor we talked about how the accident could have
happened. “So, what do you think?” He looked and sounded terrible. Beyond his
depth, he needed my company as desperately as I needed his. The funny thing was
we weren’t all that close until that day.
“It
happened on six,” I said with conviction and believed it.
“But
how?”
“He
jumped on top of the cage and got caught by the lip as the car went down.”
“But
why? Greg was a solid kid. Why would he do something so goddamn stupid?”
“My
guess is he went up to the sixth floor, thinking that’s where the Mirri was.
Maybe when he pulled the cable to stop the car it bounced a couple times and he
got off, thinking it had come to a full stop. Then it either started down on
its own or . . .” I hesitated for a brief moment, not knowing if I should
reveal what I really thought. What the hell, I thought, a real accident
investigator will come to the same conclusions. “Or one of the paper handlers
on a lower floor leaned in the shaft, grabbed the cable and started it down.”
Jorgee
frowned at me. “For Christ’s sake, Bob. Don’t ever repeat that. You don’t know
exactly what happened. So don’t make it worse than it already is by guessing.”
“Okay,
let’s assume that it started down on its own. Greg could have walked a few
steps away from the elevator and then realized he was on the wrong floor. By
the time he turned around and hurried back to the elevator it was about halfway
down. He must have panicked, thinking he had really fucked up the elevator by
not stopping it right the first time and had a runaway on his hands.”
“Yeah?
Then what?”
“He
jumped on top of the elevator cage, thinking he could easily swing his feet and
upper body into the elevator. Or not realizing the floor lip was there,
sticking out into the shaft. And maybe he miscalculated its speed. It might
have been going faster than he anticipated. Either that or once he was holding
on to the roof, with his legs hanging inside the car, he had no leverage to swing
down into the elevator and he was crushed between the floor lip and the steel
roof frame. Where we found the scratches and the metal flakes.” Shit, I
remember thinking, crushed. A terrible word and an even more awful fate. I
wished that I had used a word less evocative of the reality.
“Sweet
Jesus, you might be right. It all fits.” Jorgee’s sigh held a deep finality.
We
didn’t say much more then or on the ride back to Chesterfield
Later
Saturday afternoon I called the Rectory and asked our pastor to include Greg in
the prayers at all the Sunday Masses. This admittedly was an unusual thing for
me to do since, at that time, I neither believed in the efficacy of prayer or
in the existence of God. It was in effect a measure of my feelings of
desperation and helplessness. How else could I help Greg in his struggle for
his life? As I told Fr. Drennan the extent of Greg’s injuries I became so
choked with emotion I had to apologize and hang up. Once the tears started I couldn’t
seem to stop them.
Penny
Kennedy called at 7:30 that evening and asked me if I had had a chance to talk
to my doctor friend about the surgeon and the Hospital. I apologized profusely,
telling her that I had meant to relay the message earlier and simply forgot. My
OB-GYN friend, Kurt, had called one of his closest friends, a neurosurgeon at
the University Medical Center Medical School
The
next day, Sunday, at the Medical
Center
San
squeezed my hand tightly. “You don’t think that he . . .”
We
hugged and kissed Tom and Kathy and the Kennedys, feeling a close bond with the
suffering parents.
“How
is he doing?” I asked Tom Kennedy, not wanting to know the truth I could read
in the lines on his face.
“Not
good. They can’t stabilize his blood pressure. It keeps jumping up and down.
It’s so damned erratic.” He wiped his tear-reddened eyes with a crumpled
tissue.
“They
don’t give us much hope,” Penny sobbed.” All they tell us is bad news and then
worse news. It doesn’t seem to be getting any better. I don’t think he’s strong
enough.” Her thin body shook as the tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. San
put her arm around her and hugged tightly.
“We
can’t give up hope, Penny.” Tom voice was adamant. Greg’s still fighting. We’ve
got to help him by staying positive. If we lose hope he might be able to sense
it and quit on us. We don’t want that.”
“Have
you been able to see him this morning?” I asked Kennedy.
“Yes.
He’s not as alert as he was yesterday but he knows we’re here. He tried to talk
but it’s difficult to understand him with the oxygen mask on. I know he said,
‘Hi, Mom.’” Suddenly he turned and with a mumbled, “Excuse me,” hurried down
the hall to the Men’s Room and much needed privacy.
Tom
F. caught my eye and signaled for me to walk over to the drinking fountain with
him.
“When
did you guys get in?” I asked.
“About
8:00 last night. We came straight from the airport to see Greg.”
“How
did you know about the accident?”
“Jorgee
left a message with American Airline for me to call him immediately. Said that
is was a medical emergency. Sort of scared the shit out of us, thinking it was
a problem with one of our kids.” He looked at me and frowned, “Not that we . .
.”
I
interrupted him. “For Christ’s sake, Tom, I know exactly what you mean. Did the
nurse let you in to see him?”
“They
did but only by mistake. The Kennedys and their friends from Detroit
“Naturally.
Was he awake?”
“Not
only awake but very alert. Surprised the hell out of me after what Jorgee had
told me on the phone at the Ft.
Myers Airport
“Did
he say anything about the accident?”
“Not
really. He just said, ‘I really screwed up this time, Tom. I’m sorry. I really
screwed up.’ I told him to forget it. All we wanted was for him to get better
and come back to work. He smiled and told me that he’d be back in three days.”
Tom turned away, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Three
days he said and he meant it. When I took his hand he was so strong it shocked
me. He looked so bad but was really gripping my hand hard. I just can’t believe
he’s doing so awful this morning.” He wiped his eyes again and blew his nose.
None of us tough guys could keep the tears in check.
“How
are the Kennedys? They seem pretty torn up.”
“They
are. About a half hour ago the doctor came out and told them that they were
having trouble getting Greg stabilized. And that if they weren’t successful
pretty soon he might not make it through the day. That’s when they both broke
down. Greg must have been doing all right yesterday evening when they last
talked to him and now all they can think about is losing him, Man, how hard it
that for a parent?”
There
was nothing I could say.
“Jorgee
told me that the two of you went back to the warehouse yesterday. Did you find
anything?”
“Not
much, but enough to make a couple good guesses. We found gouges in the brick
where he must have tried to dug his heels in and stop the elevator and metal
scratches from his belt buckle on the steel frame. It looked like he tried to
jump on top part of the elevator as it was on its way down. And got crushed
between the floor lip and the metal frame.”
Tom
F. sighed deeply, shook his head in pained disbelief, and didn’t say another word.
