A magical midnight hour
- col-lee-elliot-aging-graciously
- December 29, 2022
- 974
Because I’m an inveterate storyteller, many people have already heard this tale, but as one of my best friends says when he is going to repeat a saga, “I know I’ve told you this before, but it bears repeating.”
For 20 years, New Year’s Eve was my highlight and culmination of a week-long trip to New York City, accompanying groups of anywhere from five to 40 students, teachers and parents and treating them to five Broadway shows, museums and other big-city delights.
Traditionally, we left the day after Christmas, buzzed through a very heavy schedule and ended it all in Times Square, following a New Year’s Eve show. By the time we came out of the theater, thousands were already lining up to watch the ball drop. Fortunately, for many years, the weather was cold but friendly. This particular year we were given an ice storm.
The teachers in the group decided they didn’t want to celebrate in the square, so I volunteered to take them back to the hotel while the other chaperone did duty under the clock.
Happy to be warm again, we stepped into the first elevator in the lobby and were immediately shoved to the back by a large group, none of whom spoke English. We joked about how lucky we were we only had to ride to the eighth floor. Someone pushed the button, and we started climbing — until we stopped between the fourth and fifth floors. We were truly stuck.
After entering the elevator at 11 p.m., we spent the magic midnight hour crushed together, too packed to take our coats off. Teens began to cry. Others had asthma and anxiety attacks.
We remained unmoved. Finally, at 1 a.m. the panel on which I was leaning moved a little, then was removed, giving us fresh air. Next, a man’s face appeared, telling us they hadn’t been able to rescue us because of the crowds blocking streets in the square. “We’re going to walk you over to the next elevator,” he said.
The distance between the two elevators was probably 8-10 feet. The path was a steel beam surrounded by ropes and pulleys, covered with oil and dust. It was dark. We were to climb through the opening, in our dresses and high heels, holding onto the man’s wrist, and edge sideways across the beam to the other elevator.
Talk about scared. And yet we all did it and lived to tell about it. When we reached our rooms, the rest of the group was upset with us because they thought we had gone out and left them behind. The story was hardly plausible, but there were five of us to prove it.
The hotel refused to pay for damages to our oil- and grime-covered coats that had been dragged across the beam, but because we were returning to California in about six hours, any argument was moot.
We held elevator reunions each year after that, retelling the story in wonderment. They never became exaggerated because all had experienced it and our memories were linked. As I think about it, I wonder how it was that we were so easily convinced to “walk that plank.” Would I do it today? I hardly think so.
I have revisited the same hotel and used the same elevator some 15 years later. I must admit a bit of trepidation on any rides, but at least I know there is a rescue plan if something happens.
May the coming year bring you only simple ups and downs, nice surprises, health, peace, and joy.