The Elevator

I press one, and nothing happens.

I press two, and nothing happens

I'm on three... so I don't press three.

I'm in a restricted-access elevator for which I have no restricted-access authorization.  I'm looking for two cylinders in an unfamiliar hospital with only the vaguest of instructions.  The location that appears on my work order, "ER Utility Room," isn't familiar to any of the eleven people that I've spoken to so far, eight of which work in the ER.

I press one again, and nothing happens.

My consolation in all of this is that I knew it would go badly.

My work order says nothing overtly discouraging.  But the notation that the cylinders are listed as being on the "ER Utility Room" appears in the address field, and not in the special comment section. The fact that they folded all of that information into one little space tells me that this isn't a regular client.  We won't be coming back.  No one cares how happy anyone is at the end of this transaction.

The chances are good that these cylinders arrived here by accident, were discovered, ignored, shuffled around, alibied, lied about, hidden, rediscovered and used as blame leverage before anyone called the company whose name is on the sticker.

There has never been a substance compressed into a cylinder which is nearly as toxic as the bureaucracy that surrounds its ownership.

I press one again.  Nothing happens.

How to navigate a restricted-access elevator for which you have no restricted-access authorization is actually a self-solving problem.  All you need is a person who can use the elevator.  Rather than stopping people as they work (which in this case means competing for attention with people who have broken bones sticking out them) and asking about their level of access (which sounds judgmental in every way I've imagined phrasing the question) you can just step into the elevator and wait.  The people who have access to the elevator are the people who use the elevator, so this is how you'll find them.  You're using Wayne Gretzky's philosophy of skating to where the puck will be.

The hard part, by which I mean the part that feels fundamentally wrong on an almost genetic level, is that you have to stand in a motionless elevator for a few minutes.  And behave yourself.  You really want to behave yourself.

I'm on three, but I go ahead and press three.  Nothing happens.

I can't really even complain because it's fun to walk purposefully through a door when someone opens it with their clearance badge. It's busy in the ER, so as you walk to the door guarding a restricted area, there's an excellent chance that the door will be tripped by someone with the correct authorization, allowing you to stride through with a certain amount of confidence while pretending that you're a spy.

The essence of really pretending that you're a spy is to not smile.  It's fine to smile when someone makes eye contact, but after they pass... right back to not smiling.  Spies don't smile.  Especially when not being watched.

For kicks, I press five.  And nothing happens.

But, of course, spies ARE being watched.

And so are you.  Upon entering the restricted-access elevator for which I have no restricted-access authorization, I notice a conspicuous camera lens just above eye level.  Having seen it with a quick glance, I'm careful not to look at it again because I want my behavior to appear to be the behavior of a man who doesn't know he's being watched, adding an extra layer of subterfuge.  I'm playing a very deep game.

Half remembering an article about hidden elevator functions that I might have read four years ago, I press one, three and five simultaneously and hold it for five seconds.  And nothing happens.

This standing-alone-in-the-elevator thing is a little bit of a gamble, and the stakes are your dignity.

If someone on the floor at which you're parked calls the elevator and is headed in the opposite direction, it forces a conversation about where you're going and why there is no button pressed and were you just standing in here by yourself while the elevator wasn't moving and yes I was and shouldn't you be tucking a femur back onto someone's leg...

If someone calls the elevator from a floor higher than yours, you can pretend either that you punched the wrong button, or that you actually didn't realize the elevator was restricted.  That will give the impression that you've just now gotten onto the elevator and, through inaction, wound up where you are.  They'll swipe their ID or key in their code.  There won't be questions.  We're all in this together.

The Big Jackpot in this dumb lottery is for someone to call the elevator to your target floor.  You can just stroll off and nod politely to whomever and go on about your business -- which isn't the business of a spy, but they don't know that.  They couldn't.  Because I'm among the world's top pretend spies  -- which I'm pretending isn't something I'm pretending that I'm not allowed to pretend to talk about.

There's a sound, and I momentarily feel lighter.  The elevator is descending to one.

Adventure calls.