Ed. Note – Every so often on Holy Taco we’ll eschew the normal list of wish-granting sex toys or article on how to irradiate FOX news anchors and instead offer up a little bit of the personal anecdote stuff that helps us connect with you, the reader. It shows that, like you, we’re human, and fallible and we experience the same situations that you do. So with that in mind, here’s the story of the time I was stuck in an elevator with Batboy and David Gest.
Once a month or so I have to meet with a financial consultant downtown who checks my receipts as per court order to make sure nothing like what happened in 2007 happen again. Anyway, the office is on the 23rd floor of an office tower and the elevator ride up is slow like grim death coming for Andy Rooney because the building owners presumably felt they could save money by replacing a standard elevator motor with a team of rats hitched to yokes in the basement.
I got on the elevator in the lobby and was blessedly alone. There are few things I dislike more than sharing an elevator with strangers (such as having a stranger stand next to me at a urinal and beets). Honestly, it’s a tiny space that is suspended from a great height by wires that is frequently the scene of horrible deaths in movies. If I’m going to die in a little box, it’s not going to be with some dude who smells like ham crying next to me.
On the second floor, the elevator stopped and I already felt a sense of impending lower-intestinal doom. The elevator never stops on the second floor when you’re going up, the very idea is preposterous. If you’re going up, what the hell are you doing on the second floor? How did you get there? Did you need to stop and visit the notary there? Or the print shop that specializes in standees? Foolish. Just foolish.
The doors opened and, for all intents and purposes, my brain shit itself. I don’t know what circus packed these two characters up in crates after doping them in the middle of the night and sending them to the second floor of this office building, but there they were, recently freed and apparently desirous of going up. With me. One stood ominously, Frankensteinianly tall and gloomy while the other was the actual source of the term heebie jeebies. You know those awful, surreal moments when you run afoul of a ghoulie out in the world, and it’s so f*cked up you immediately need to tell someone? Like they’re not ugly in the normal way that lots of people are ugly, but in a real shocking way? I can legitimately defend myself as being non-judgmental here, because this just wasn’t usual. From the time you’re a baby you have a fairly comprehensive understanding of what a human looks like and all people no matter their color, size or age tend to fit that basic, identifiable standard and beauty doesn’t even factor in because, really, that’s very relative. This wasn’t relative. This was the Bat Boy. Brain shits. No lie. The other one it took me a minute to pinpoint but basically I settled on David Gest.
There was that moment of silence as the two sideshow acts sized me up and I tried not to weep before they got on the elevator and the doors closed. Neither of them pressed a button. Ascension began and each slowly passing floor seemed to be counting down to the moment I was going to be sex murdered. So totally, awfully sex murdered on an elevator by a little bald mutant and David f*cking Gest. Sweet Mary and Joseph. And then this shit happened;
Are you shitting me? The Bay Boy’s name is Bruce?
At this point not only did Bat Boy Bruce call me dude, he made eye contact. I can’t express to you how offputting that was. I shrugged and made a “meh” sound.
Bang, right there. Did you see that? It may be harder in this two-dimensional reproduction to catch it, but that was the moment my brain shit again, and also insanity got on the elevator with us. What kind of a non-sequitor was that? You worked on a tree farm? I refused to respond. Didn’t matter, Bruce was on it.
I prayed he was talking to Bruce and then, awfully, terribly, they both looked at me. You know how you stand in an elevator, not looking at anyone,e ven if you know them? We had that up till now. But now David Gest and Bat Boy were both ogling me and I could almost hear there wires raising the elevator whispering “sex murder! Sex murder!” What bloody floor were we on? 12? Jesus!
“Um, I dunno,” I muttered. The staring lasted just a moment longer than necessary, the way you stare at your roommate when you ask who ate the rest of the cookies, when you know you didn’t eat the damn cookies and no one else lives in the apartment so you already know the answer but you’re being polite by asking and he still has the balls to say he doesn’t know, so you just stare a moment longer than you need to in the hopes your icy, silent knowing will shame him into admitting he stole your Chunks Ahoy.
But why are they both still staring at me? Am I supposed to trump the mints? We’re on 17 now. Goddamnit! And one of these guys smells like turmeric.
Are you shitting me? No one has ever asked that question in the history of ever. You know Werthers? Hey, I’m really interested in your knowledge of butterscotch candies here on this stinky elevator full of freaks and imminent sex murder. Please share.
“Yeah, they’re good.” What the hell else can I say? Is there a polite way to scream in panic? We’re on 20. So damn close.
Dread, plotting silence for two more floors and finally, blessedly, 23 dings and the door opens. I exit quickly, expecting to out distance them with my quick, terror-fueled strides in the hopes there’s no possible way they’re going to the same office I am. I make a quick glance back, all casual-like to ensure everything is cool, and the elevator door is closing with both of them still on it. What?
I’m forced to conclude the previous 5 minute elevator ride was nothing more the physical embodiment of total insanity.