Trapt in the Elevator

It's been a while since my last post. Things are getting busy at work for me, while at the same time my contract with Nike will be over at the end of the month. So while staying caught up with work I'm trying to fit as many informational interviews in my day as possible. This becomes even more difficult when you spend an hour-and-a-half of that time stuck in an elevator. This is exactly what happened to me on Tuesday.

Because of the large amount of shoes that I have to deliver on a daily basis I can't get them upstairs with the passenger elevators. Instead I get the privilege of unrestricted access to the freight elevator. This sounds super lame, but is coveted in some circles throughout the development team.

I found myself on the third floor, after delivering samples to the categories up there, on my way down to the second floor. The elevator suddenly dropped; not exactly a controlled drop either, more like a free fall for about four to six feet. The thing about elevators is that they are designed with the purpose of not making you feel like you're on an elevator. It is the goal of the designers for you to be unaware that you are moving vertically, so when you feel it as I felt it you it would be entirely appropriate for one to promptly defecate in their drawers.

After the second or so it took the elevator to do what the bowl of raisin bran had been unable to do up until that point, the emergency brakes kicked in. At that point all I could think about was that the only thing saving me from a three-and-a-half story fall to the basement was some metal locks I initially imagined to be quite hefty. After contemplating the emergency locks further I began to realize they were much more modest than I imagined, and that not everything can be made perfectly.

The terrifying realization of how it would only take one thing to go wrong in the process of putting the elevator together, or even in the production of the parts that made up the elevator, could end my life I began to plan in the event the elevator did go into a free fall. My brain, drunk on fear and adrenaline, told me that jumping on the stack of boxes filled with shoes would be my greatest chance for survival. In retrospect I should be embarrassed of ever letting fear take me this far away from reality, but I'm not. To be honest I am undeniably impressed with the fact that given my state I came up with an idea that, I still believe now, would have saved my life, or at the least a lot of pain from broken legs.

The best part of this story is the phone call to security. It went like this. (Joking aside this conversation needs no embellishments or exaggerations. This is as accurate as it can get!)

"Security, this is Robert."

"Robert, I could use your help. I'm stuck in the Mia Hamm Freight elevator."

"Stuck? How so."

I was curious as to how many other combinations of events there were that would cause me to be stuck in the elevator and still have the capacity to dial security.

"As in it stopped working while I was in it. I'm in between the second and third floor."

"Oh, well did you scan your access card, it won't work unless you scan your access card."

I was quickly becoming clear to me Robert wasn't too sharp.

"Yes Robert, I scanned my card. I scanned it and then the elevator fell 6 feet and stopped."

"Oh! Yah that isn't good."

The little blind faith I had in Robert, was gone by now. It was at this point I knew there would be an end ot this conversation where I found myself in disbelief.

"Much less so when you're in the elevator when it happens."

"Well I will dispatch a security guard and some maintenance guys to fix that and get you out."

"Thank you Robert."

At this point, I was on edge, and extremely aware of the intermittent creaks and ticks coming from the elevator. Anticipating the next one to be the straw that broke the camels back. I felt uneasy with the reliance I had on Robert to come through for me.

15-20 minutes pass without any movement or word from security or maintenance. This is concerning because the security office is 3-and-a-half floors below me; it should have taken 2 minutes tops! Reluctantly I called Robert again.

"Robert, can I get an ETA on that dispatch?"

"Oh yah, they fixed it you can get out now."

Was he being serious?

"Uh, no they didn't."

"Yah, they went over there called the freight elevator and it came down and opened up just fine."

Robert's incredible ineptitude was becoming less and less surprising.

"Then why am I still stuck in here, calling you on the elevator's emergency phone?"

"I don't know, that is kind of confusing"

Unbelievable!

"Lets start over Robert. I'm trapped in the Mia Hamm freight elevator between the third and second floors."

"Oh Mia Hamm?....."

I cringed. I could hear his next words before he could say them.

".....I sent them over to Tiger Woods;....."

This time I heard his words before he even knew he would speak them. Somehow when I first met Robert over that scratchy phone I knew our conversation would culminate to this...

".....that is probably why you're still stuck."

I threw my forehead into the palm of my hand.

"Probably."

New Look

I never really liked how my blog looked so I made a few changes since I finally got the time to do so.

I also should take the time to explain the name of the blog. It is a short hand for "To be or not to be" (Yes I realize that the letters don't go in the correct order.) It is the name of a short story written by Kilgore Trout. Kilgore Trout is a fictional character created by Kurt Vonnegut, and made many appearances in Vonnegut's stories. Vonnegut's writings were saturated with satire, often making fun of what humanity has become and/or the direction it is heading due to what little value we see in anyone besides ourselves.

Feel free to read the story and perhaps grasp a better understanding of where I'm coming from. If you are super technologically challenged and are wondering where you click to read the story try here or here.

Mother's Day Tribute Part 2

As explained in my previous post in the spirit of Mother's Day I wanted to share a few stories about my Mother that don't involve her humiliation for the sake of humiliation. They are stories more focused on the impact that they had on my development into the person I am now and hope to be in the future.

The score had stayed the same since I had entered the game, leaving me with the satisfaction of a job well done. I had been sent into the game late due to my absence at a practice the previous week. In the first half the opposing team had scored 4 goals due to the lack of speed possessed by a particular defender on our team. All 4 had been scored by the same player.

After the final whistle blew our team gathered on the field to listen to our coach struggle for positive comments to make on our play. When he spoke of "Good power on our thrown-ins" or "Give a lot of credit to your keeper. He did the best he could with what he was given today." we knew we were in for trouble the next week. One solace I could always take was my parents meeting me with my bag as I walked to the sideline.

They were both fantastic about coming to every game they could, no matter how much I was going to play. Regardless of how I played my Mother would flash her enthusiastic grin at me give me a powerful hug and a "GREAT GAME BUD!" slapping me on the back authoritatively. I always thought this to be her way to make this seem like less of a mushy exchange in front of my teammates and peers.

On those occasions when I felt as if I had played well, as was this one, I would absorb satisfaction from my Mom's blind enthusiasm for her child. As I turned towards the sideline and tried to feign disappointment with my teams play while ignoring my own excitement for my success, I took notice of the void next to my father. I searched for my Mother amongst the other parents, perhaps she had gotten caught up in a conversation with one of the other player's moms. She was nowhere in sight.

"Where'd Mom go?" I asked my father as he handed me my bag. A huge smile poured across his face as he showed his teeth. An event my Father usually reserved for those moments he found lavishly hilarious. His belly began to bounce up and down as I continued to wait for an answer while he composed himself.

"She'll meet us over by the track."

This was away from the players and coaches as well as a detour from the direct line to the team bus. The 100 yard walk to our destination we were supposed to meet was filled with pleading gestures by myself for my Dad to tell me what would possess my Mother to go to such lengths to not encounter any other people after the game. He continued to laugh, chuckling out bits and pieces along the way.

I finally spotted my Mother, walking a brisk lap around the field adjacent to the one we had just played on. She had her hands on her hips and she appeared to be looking at the ground directly in front of her.

As she approached us the tension would have been more concentrated if not for the intermittent chuckles from my Father to my side.

"What is going on Mom?" I asked mildly concerned

"I'm sorry, I wanted to be there at the end of the game I just couldn't I needed to cool down. You played great." She gave me a hug, with no pats on the back and held me tightly for longer than she usually would in such a public setting. She did her best to understand embarrassing situations for a teenage boy.

"Cool down from what? What happened?"

The laughter from over my shoulder became obvious and my Father turned and walked a few steps away to be less of a distraction-or less of a target I was never sure of which. My Mother hesitated in explaining her odd behavior. To her the moment was still too fresh, and the anger too real. She looked around intently being sure the coach or any players were within ear shot.

"I just want to punch that Tyson kid!" Tyson was the player who had started in my place and allowed the one player to score 4 goals.

I began to see why my Father was having such a hard time containing his amusement.

"There is no reason he should have been starting and not you. What was the coach thinking?!"

My Mother had refused to take any path to her car that would force her any human interaction. She had allowed herself to become so worked up about her son not starting when she felt he should have that she became fearful of what she might say and do to whoever she did encounter. My Mother, being the kind self-aware woman she is, determined the best action would be a quarter mile detour to prevent herself from committing physical assault.

The reality of the situation was that I was not allowed to play that first half because I had missed a practice, standard team rule. This meant little to my Mother, as it would to most mother's I feel. When they see their child being treated in a manner they feel to be harsh they become completely different beings.

Looking at my Mother in that moment I could not imagine her as the woman who would rub my back when I was sick, or come to my bedside after I had a nightmare. There was no room for such compassion in this woman. The person I saw was so overcome by anger she was ready to throw down with whoever wanted to test her. This coincidentally was why my Father had decided it in his best interest to try to conceal his laughter from her.

No matter how much we deserve the consequences of our actions a good Mother will always be there, and sometimes she'll be ready for a fight.

Mother's Day Tribute Part 1

I have many stories about members in my family. Some I have shared in the short life of this blog. In the spirit of Mother's Day I wanted to share some stories that I feel were significant in how I will remember my Mother in the different stages of my life. After thinking of all the possible stories I determined that most were similar, a tribute to my mother's consistency of being awesome, and others would probably be much more embarrassing than she deserves.

One in particular is much too embarrassing for her and I, it is at least a PG-13 story-maybe even R- and My Brother and father, who were present at the time, get way too much joy from my extreme discomfort for me to give them satisfaction of reliving it. So that being said my first story I feel is an excellent example of how my Mother never allowed me to feel alone in any aspect of my life, whether it was joy, sorry or guilt my Mother shared those feelings with me, never letting me go it alone.

I was less than 7 but more than 4 years old. The church, and by extension various members of my family, had returned from a missions trip in Mexico a few weeks prior. On this particular Sunday night there was what I thought was called "super supper" when in all likelihood my mind had noticed a similarity between the real name-"soup and supper"- and something that sounded way cooler.

This Super Supper was no ordinary Super Supper. It was the day when those who returned from the missions trip had the opportunity to share there experiences with the members of the church who attended. I remember three of the four walls were lined with tables and the tables were covered with displays. Some hosted pictures of the children they encountered, and projects they worked on, others had goofy pictures of the team members experiencing the adventure of over a thousand miles with 50 teenagers and poor hygiene.

The tables that attracted me, and every other child there, were the tables that hosted the souvenirs. Do remember that when you were between 4 and 7 things purchased in Mexico were exotic and fantastic. In fact when many years later I attended the same missions trip as a Junior in high school the only purchases I intended to make were tacos from a taco stand called Tacos Perez. It coincidentally was one of the dozen or so places you could eat in Tijuana and not be stricken with debilitating diarrhea, or so my experiences have taught me. The point being items from Mexico lose there luster as you get older but when you were a child they were as incredible as a Disneyland pen.

One exhibit caught my eye. There was a pair of maracas. I had never heard of anything by that name, and therefore knew nothing of what to do with or how to play such an instrument with such a name. I, in fact, had spent some valuable time playing a maraca as an infant and toddler, only i knew it as a rattle. I was quite good, or so my experiences have taught me.

My mind, still unsure if girls were yucky or not, determined that they best way to play such an instrument was to hit it against the table.

Now would be a good time to address how and when Mexican souvenirs lose their appeal. They're cheap. You usually learn this after your first trip down there when you buy the fake Oakley glasses for 5 bucks when they're over $100 at home. You think you got a steal and that nobody will be able to tell the difference and you don't even get the chance to try and put it past people because they break before you can even get home. My first pair fell apart on my face when I laughed in a manner the glasses deemed too extreme for its existence.

Needless to say the maracas were made with the same spirit as the Oakley's. They crumbled like sand. I remember my face began to burn and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. My mind, being what it was, told me to run away and never speak of this to anyone. My mind also assured me that none of the 100 or so people present, the 15 within a few yards of me, nor the 5 directly behind me in line saw what I had done, and that nobody would ever be able to figure out that it was me.

It was the next week during the day, so I must have been in Kindergarten. My mind must have betrayed me because I confessed to the whole thing with little pressure from my mother. I remember feeling so terrible about breaking the Maraca. Worse off the Maracas had belonged to a pastor at the church, David Case.

Perhaps I thought I could trust my Mother with such incriminating information and that I could now go along with my life without having to burden myself with such guilt. I was wrong. That afternoon my Mother took me down to the church and walked me into David's office. I did not want to go. I remember thinking how cool I thought that Maraca was and that I would be so upset if that was mine and somebody had broken it. I looked my mother through the tears cascading down my cheeks and said, "I don't want to do it Mommy, I don't want to do it."

This is where things get serious. This is what stands out to me most about my Mother and is the best example of Love that a Mother can show her child.

My Mom replied, "Neither do I." She was crying even more than I as she guided me into David's office. I can not recall what I said to David, what I do remember was not being afraid anymore. My mother stood next to me and continued to cry. Her tears comforted me. Each one told me how much she loved me. No matter how dark of a place I found myself in I knew from that day forward without a doubt that my Mother would be there with me if I asked her to. While it might not seem like much to others it meant the world to me. I love you Mom.



Keep an eye out for Part Two later this week.