Claustrophobia

We pulled into Detroit around 8 pm this evening and I can safely say that for the first time since I left New York, I don't quite feel safe. It may have something to do with the gangs that roam the hallways or the drunk convenience store clerk in the lobby. But mainly, it has to do with the elevators. Namely, that they exist. And also, that they are the most terrifying elevators I have ever seen in my life.

My mother told me that if I was going to have a fear of elevators, I probably couldn't get by in New York City. Surprisingly, I've done pretty well. The first step is to separate elevators into two categories--those that I can get into and those that I cannot. This way of compartmentalizing makes perfect sense to me though I understand that if I attempt to explain it to others, I risk being labeled "Mentally Unstable".

If I have to get into an elevator, I prefer that it has any of the following distinctions: shiny metal walls, mirrors, a real life elevator operator inside it or those small televisions that show me the latest headlines and stock prices. I can also tolerate elevators that are bigger than the average bathroom, elevators that shoot up to the floor so fast that I don't even have time to ponder the "what ifs" and also, in an ideal world, elevators that have windowed, see-through walls. (See also: Disney World, NYC Marriot Hotel)

I don't know what the shiny factor has to do with keeping me sane but for some reason, anything metallic soothes me and gives me the impression that maybe I will live after all. Televisions are obviously wonderful distractions whereas fast elevators eliminate the time I spend wondering how much longer I have until I die. Mirrors are soothing because I can tell myself that if anything happens while I'm inside the mirrored elevator, I can at least pass the time by popping my pimples. This calms my troubled soul immensely.

The list of Elevators I Cannot Ride Alone is long and excessive. Here are some excerpts:

-- Anything entirely wood panelled as this gives me the feeling that I am inside a coffin and therefore already deceased.

--Any elevator that was built before 1990. I consider anything pre-New Kids On The Block to be old and unstable. I cannot tolerate any elevator that jerks, bumps or creaks unnecessarily.

--Elevator doors that take a long time to open up. (See also: Clemens Hall Elevator, University at Buffalo). When the elevator reaches my floor and the doors pause for awhile before opening, I consider the elevator to be stuck in place and therefore, I consider suicide.

--Any elevator that is smaller than my bathroom.

Of course, I live in New York City where there are things like apartment highrises and very very tall office buildings. These things tend to contain elevators because apparently, unlike me, the average person does not want to walk twenty flights of stairs to get to work. Being out on the road has taught me that in hotels, people do not want to take their luggage up the stairs either. And so, God created elevators.

It seems that 75% of the time, we have stayed in motels that do not have more than three floors and therefore, do not have elevators. Margot is ecstatic when we find a motel with an elevator because this means that the motel is usually of nicer quality and also that she doesn't have to lug her suitcase up three flights of stairs. For awhile, when we stayed in these places, Margot convinced me to ride the elevator up with her, distracting me by talking about important things like Beck’s new album or whether or not we should have dinner at Arby’s. This worked a few times until one moment of jest where she jumped and yelled inside a Comfort Inn elevator, just to scare me and I screamed my head off and vowed never to trust her again.


Now, when we reach these places, I enter the elevator after Margot, deposit my suitcase inside it, gently extricate myself from the Tiny Space of Death and hightail it up the stairs to meet Margot on the next floor up. This system works rather well though people seem to view it as...oh what's the word...retarded?

I was discussing my severe case of claustrophobia with the director of my show and at one point he laughed and said, “You do realize that if the elevator DOES get stuck, you’re not going to DIE or anything, right?!”

Um. Actually? THAT IS PRECISELY WHY I DO NOT GET INTO ELEVATORS.

No, I have never been stuck. No, I cannot recall a scarring childhood memory involving a small space I could not get out of (see: Robert Langdon, Da Vinci Code). I just do not like them Sam I Am, simply because elevators for me spell out IMMINENT DEATH.

You see, should that elevator stop for whatever reason and get stuck, my heart will stop beating and I will keel over and die. They will find me days later, eaten by magical elevator maggots who are feasting on my brain. Do not tell me I can press the help button or pick up the little phone and scream bloody murder. And do NOT, stupid idiot sir who told me this, tell me that you can just pry open the doors yourself when you get stuck. TRUST ME. YOU CAN’T.

As soon as those pernicious doors close, I begin to have trouble breathing. A bucket of fear drops in my stomach and when things get really bad (i.e.: jerking of elevator, audible screeching of wires), I start to hum the psalms. I do not know why I am crazy. I just know that I am.


Lucky for me, this Detroit hotel has the oldest set of elevators I have ever seen. The doors are something out of the 1920’s, gold-plated but not in a happy metallic way, more in a nightmarish “The Shining” kind of way. The inside is eerily carpeted with stained blue and red patterns and the walls are a deep oak. It would resemble a coffin except for the graffiti etched into the wood with knives.

Naturally, placed in this situation, with a room on the top floor, I am going to choose the stairs over the elevator. And this, my good friends is why I have gone up and down nine flights of stairs a total of six times so far. Not only is it an amazing cardio workout but I can sleep peacefully knowing that when I die, it will not be inside a ghoulish hotel elevator in Detroit, curled up in the fetal position, clutching my heart in frozen agony.