Jamal hated elevators. Not because he was claustrophobic—no, he just knew too much. Worked IT for a midtown high-rise. He’d seen things: spreadsheet crimes, VPN sins, one guy using Excel to draw fan art.
So when he got in the elevator Monday morning with Greg from marketing and a stranger in a fedora holding a falafel, Jamal knew something was off.
"Going up?" Fedora Guy asked.
"Top floor," Greg said, already tapping at his phone like it owed him money.
Jamal pressed 32. Fedora Guy didn't press anything.
Odd.
The doors slid shut. The elevator began to move.
Then it stopped. Between floors 14 and 15.
Greg sighed. "Oh come on."
"Relax," Jamal said. "These things happen. Building's old. Probably just a—"
The lights flickered. The falafel hummed.
"What was that?" Greg asked, eyes wide.
Fedora Guy stepped forward. "Gentlemen," he said, "I represent the League of Subway Poets. We’re hijacking this elevator to perform three haikus and a spoken word piece."
Greg screamed.
Jamal sipped his coffee. “That explains the falafel.”
An overhead speaker crackled. The lights dimmed. Fedora Guy launched into a heartfelt haiku about gentrification and artisanal pickles.
It wasn’t bad.
After the second poem, Greg began to cry. By the end of the spoken word—something about rats, love, and rent control—he was clapping.
The elevator jolted back to life.
Doors opened.
Fedora Guy tipped his hat. “Support your local poets.”
He vanished into the lobby.
Greg blinked. “What just happened?”
Jamal stepped out. “Monday, man.”
And that’s why Jamal takes the stairs now. Every day. Floor 32. No regrets.
Well, maybe a few.
Mostly in his calves.