I work in a building with a scary elevator. My father engineered the building back in the ’70s(ish); but Bert, the man, the legend, did not install the elevator. It shakes. It clicks as it passes floors and it does so at uneven intervals. When you arrive at your destination, it shudders and waits just long enough for you to start freaking out before it opens its doors. The bank of buttons includes one which reads, “flashes when help is on the way” or something equally alarming. Reasonable working knowledge of hydraulics has only barely helped to curb a childhood fear of crashing elevators. I get Speed flashbacks and realize that Jeff and Keanu won’t be showing up to wrestle me from the precarious death-trap. But I’ve grown resigned to my possible destiny. Also, a friend who dies in a freak elevator accident is one hell of a Bar Story. And it’s impossible for me to write about elevators without remembering the unfortunate tale of the couple who owned a house with an elevator, got stuck in it and died. Starved to death. The lesson? If you have an elevator in your house, for goodness’ sake, ride separately.