Let me say this about elevators: When those doors slam shut and we're hurtling through the bowels of a building and I'm squashed next to some junior account executive reeking of Drakkar Noir while a string version of "Penny Lane" echoes from the speakers, I am about this close to a full-scale freak-out.
Men don't like to admit to a fear of elevators, of course. If you ask a man what scares him, he'll come up with something suitably vague ("I dunno, the future scares me . . .") before snapping his head back to the Knicks-Celtics game on TV.
Or else he'll bark: "Me? Look, pal, I was with the 101st Airborne, OK?" and launch into a mind-numbing tale of his role in Desert Storm, where he flushed out Iraqi bunkers at night with a dagger clenched between his teeth.
Right, right . . . and yet the idea of stepping into a carpeted, gun-metal gray tomb on the 25th floor of a skyscraper with a dozen nervous strangers, one of whom is chirping: "Looks like a hot one today!" is not without its own terrors.
What men fear most in an elevator is, of course, entrapment and the sweat-soaked claustrophobic nightmare that follows.
In the back of their minds, they wonder: If this car suddenly lurches to a stop, how will I handle it?
Will I remain calm and provide inspiration to my fellow passengers? Or will I elbow some 72-year-old grandmother out of the way and claw at the doors and shriek, "WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!" before collapsing in a quivering mess?
Personally, I see myself leaning toward the latter reaction. I have been trapped in an elevator a half-dozen times, most memorably in a St. Louis hotel. While I haven't lost it yet, it's probably just a matter of time.
When I snap, it's liable to be a doozy, too, a full-fledged weeping jag where I exhort everyone to hold hands and sing a panicky version of "Nearer My God to Thee."
Maybe that's why I'm always so concerned about elevator inspection certificates.
That's the first thing I look for when I step on an elevator. Call me a worrywart, but I want to make sure somebody has done a safety check on this baby since the Truman administration.
To me it doesn't matter if the elevator was inspected by some guy named Bud with a three-day growth of beard, rheumy eyes and a pint of Yukon Jack in his back pocket.
I can't worry about that. I can only hope that through his boozy haze, Bud spotted that 5-inch gash in the main cable and alerted the proper building authorities.
Of course, in many of your more modern elevators, there is no inspection certificate.
Instead, what you find is an ominous-looking piece of paper that says: "Inspection certificate available in lobby upon request."
Well. Maybe it's me, but when I see this, it just red-lines my raging paranoia.
And I think: What are these people trying to hide?! Has the elevator been inspected or hasn't it?!
What is it, a problem with the brakes?! Are we going to come shooting down from the 60th floor like some huge asteroid and slam into the ground floor and break into a thousand pieces while creating a huge fireball?!
Is that it?!
Whew. Steady now. Deep breath. Don't want to flip out right here at the word processor.
Which is what I almost did when the elevator stopped between floors in the St. Louis hotel.
There were three other people stuck with me: a matronly-looking woman loaded down with packages, a bald guy I nicknamed the Accountant and a Sid Vicious look-alike who appeared to be some sort of courier.
After a few minutes, I took to staring at the woman and wondering what part of her we'd gnaw on first when we all started dying of hunger. She had fairly meaty calves, so that seemed like a good place to start.
Of course, all this was assuming our air supply didn't give out first.
"Look," I whispered to the Accountant, "if it starts to get a little musty in here, we'll have to kill the others. You know, to preserve the oxygen."
Thankfully, the elevator began moving five minutes later and we were soon in the lobby. The hotel manager apologized and offered us a free meal in the restaurant, but we all said no.
I was getting sick of those people anyway.