The Box

Steven was suffocating in this confinement.  He was restricted in a way he did not think was possible.  He clutched his bag to his chest as if it carried something precious, something sacred to him.  The doors opened again, and more people crowded in.  Where they managed to find the space to fit in, Steven had no idea.  He had gotten on the elevator on the first floor; he feared he would never reach the top.

            He was just trying to get to work.  His boss, Mr. Elliot, had called him in early for a one-on-one.  Steven suspected there would be little collaboration.  More likely the old buzzard would berate him for 20 minutes before finally, mercifully, releasing him to the sanctuary of his desk. 

            Being forced to be here early had thrown off his entire routine.  His customary morning ritual of a bowl of frosted mini wheat’s and the morning paper had been cut short this day.  Funny, he thought; how the universe managed even to alter Steven’s most basic routines and rituals.  Before long, even his nightly habit of comic books and a fudge bar would be lost to him forever. 

            The doors opened again and, amazingly, even more people managed to pour themselves into the cracks that remained between bodies.  Steven was now convinced that this was not, in fact, an elevator, but some sort of pocket dimension that he had stumbled into.  Here the laws of physics no longer held sway and matter and energy could act in all sorts of bizarre ways that would make even Stephen Hawking blush.  Steven half expected to be pushed through the walls of the elevator into a whole new plane of existence.  Perhaps that might be for the best.  Where ever he ended up would no doubt be preferable to this sweaty, fart infused elevator to hell.