From the 19th Floor / Rebeca Monzo

From the 19th Floor / Rebeca Monzo
Rebeca Monzo, Translator: Maria Montoto

Last Monday I managed to get off unscathed and in one piece from a Route
27 bus, between stops, at 17th and D, thanks to the kindness of the
driver, who decided to give me a chance, opening the doors of the bus there.

I took F Street and headed toward Linea. With horror I could observe how
destroyed the area is and the number of improvised shacks there, in what
in other times used to be the garages and front porches of the old
family residences, displaying without the slightest embarrassment
architectural cellulite and scoliosis, diseases which almost all new
buildings or renovations suffer today. Unfortunately, that day I had not
brought my camera, which I had left at home charging. The heat was
exhausting and the sweat rolled down my eyelashes, causing me to glimpse
as through a veil all those architectural horrors that I was walking toward.

When I finally reached Linea Street, which shimmered like the desert
because of the intense sun, I thought I was hallucinating when I saw in
the middle of the sidewalk a huge Santa Claus in plain month of June. At
first I thought it was a performance, because we are still in Biennial,
but there was no audience. As I approached, I saw that it was an
advertising gimmick of an unsuccessful street vendor, to attract attention.

Finally I reached the large building where the friend I was going to
visit lives. As usual, the main elevator was out of service, leaving
only the freight elevator running. Both are ancient Otises from the
fifties. I got into this thing alone, which I don't like to do, and
pushed the button for the 19th floor. All was going fine until it
stopped on the 10th floor, to pick up a young woman with a little girl
about two years old. She punched 13 and, having barely risen one floor,
we became stuck between 11th and 12th.

Never before had I been trapped in an elevator, although many times I
had thought that it could happen to me. I kept calm, following the
example of serenity and peace that the little girl gave us. I knew that
the presence of that little angel would bring us luck. I gave my cell
phone (which happened to be charged) to the young woman, so she could
call the manager, because she lives in that building, and knows its
intricacies. Immediately we heard the voices of those coming to our
rescue. We put on the emergency (break) and got to work, listening to
the instructions that came from outside, to find the famous lever and
the black button that had to be pushed, so that they could open from the
outside. As soon as we accomplished that, they opened the door to that
floor and we saw that indeed we had stopped between two floors. Thanks
to the fact that the small window in the door was broken, a little air
came in to us.

Naturally, they got the little girl out first. The young woman jumped
and almost fractured her ankle in the fall. I, who suffer from vertigo,
looked sideways at the dark hollow of two quarters or so wide that was
lost in the void and told myself: "Don't look down, you have to get
out." Any which way, since all residents of the building have been
putting up iron gates to protect themselves, adding an uncalculated
weight to the property, taking advantage of this architectural error,
stretching first my arms and then my legs, I grabbed the bars of the
door to the apartment closest to me, like a spider, to get out and let
myself fall onto the landing of the service stairwell, to the applause
of all who were watching the maneuver.

Fortunately, there was a happy ending. But once I had calmed down, from
the 19th floor, observing the beautiful view, I started thinking that
with all the gates that all of the neighbors have added around the exits
from the elevators, the day there is a fire it will be very difficult to
evacuate them.

Translated by: Maria Montoto and others

June 6 2012

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