An hour in a dark elevator

When Sherry and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary at the St.

Regis Hotel in Dana Point over the weekend, we spent the first hour

in a dark elevator -- which wasn’t exactly the way we had planned it.

We arrived in the early afternoon, excited and eager to explore

these splendid digs. So instead of going directly to our room, we

wandered through the lobby floor checking out bars and restaurants

and ending in front of an elevator. When the doors opened, the

elevator was empty, and we got in and punched our floor. When the

doors closed, the lights didn’t come on, and the elevator groaned and

ratcheted its way somewhere and then simply quit. Flat out died.

So I was alone in a dark elevator with an attractive woman, which

was the upside. The downside was that we didn’t know where we were,

and we would strongly have preferred being in our room. Instead, we

got acquainted with two disconnected voices that responded through

the closed doors from the Great Beyond when Sherry found the

emergency button in the dark and set off an alarm.

The first voice belonged to a hotel technician who was diagnosing

our problem so he could fix it and get the elevator moving again.

The second belonged to a man who identified himself as “Security”

and wanted to know who we were, then took charge of the proceedings

when the problem proved stubbornly difficult.

He told us that a technician who specialized in getting people out

of stuck elevators had been called and was on his way.

We didn’t know where he was on his way from, so we sat down on the

floor of the elevator to wait.

I gave some thought to emulating Michael Douglas in a similar

situation in a movie whose name I couldn’t remember, but I decided

against it -- even after we were told that the expert was mired in

traffic and God knows how long it would take him to get there.

That’s when security decided to call the local fire department.

Although we must have ranked fairly low in their litany of rescues,

we were enormously relieved to hear them clanking about outside.

I fully expected to see a pick-ax come through the door, but their

approach was much more sophisticated because in a few minutes the

door sprang open and we were looking at a passel of intrepid

firefighters and good old Security himself.

We had been in the dark for almost an hour.

When we settled in for a drink in our room and had time to

reflect, two observations were paramount. First, we were pleased that

both of us had dealt calmly with the pitch blackness, the isolation

and the lack of knowledge of our situation. Sherry shed a few tears

in frustration early on, but that passed quickly, and later we were

even able to manage some dark jokes.

And second, there is simply no way to overestimate the importance

of communication -- even when there is nothing to communicate.

However well we may have been dealing with this situation, we still

needed constant reassurance -- honeyed words that rescue operations

were moving along, and that we’d be out in no time.

If we would have any advice for future rescue teams, it would be

to keep talking to whomever is being rescued.

The hotel staff was solicitous and kind, right down to the

waitress who served our anniversary dinner in the Aqua dining room,

where management graciously picked up the check. We had a small

measure of fame around the hotel for one evening as the People Who

Were Stuck in the Elevator.

It may have been the hard way to get a free meal, but it was a

terrific dinner. And a memorable anniversary.

*

I have a policy with regard to Steve Smith. If I used my column to

counter things he writes with which I strongly disagree, I would be

sacrificing space better used to express my own views and would also

be debating him on his own ground, which is mostly a galaxy far

distant from the one I inhabit.

It would also be pretty boring for readers.

So my policy is simply to do my own thing, let him do his, and let

the readers decide which galaxy they prefer.

But when Steve gets personal, or when my words are misrepresented,

I reserve the option of responding. And his column Saturday did both.

He took issue with my view that it is not in the public interest

to allow the precious license for a TV station devoted primarily to

matters of local public service and education to fall into the hands

of televangelists selling their particular brand of religion, and

that this concern should have at least comparable legal weight with

the amount of money involved.

That was fine until Steve converted this argument into a political

issue by planting me firmly with “those on the left” to whom “the

vacuous, mind-numbing rot on TV is OK because it’s what they like”

and to whom “God is a four-letter word.”

He prefaced this by saying, “My religious views are my own

business.”

Since mine are too, I’d be interested in knowing what four-letter

word he has discovered I use to describe God. And what mind-numbing

rot I watch on television. And how he came by this information.

He warned me up front about his Saturday column, saying, “I hope

and believe that I have not made it personal.”

Those of you reading this can weigh that for yourselves.

Me, I’m going back to the old policy.

* JOSEPH N. BELL is a resident of Santa Ana Heights. His column

appears Thursdays.