Two And A Halfth Floor

Milwaukee. I had already been having a Bad Device Day, which is a subset of the Bad Physics Day wherein no device designed to make life easier works as designed. B.P.Ds are different from general bad days; a bad day is just a cluster of unlucky happenings, but in a true B.P.D., the events are arranged in ascending order from least to most frustrating, ending in an unbelievably stupid and specific disaster that grabs you by the metaphorical lapels and shouts, "YES, THE UNIVERSE IS MESSING WITH YOU, BOY." This particular B.D.D. started with my cellphone and worked its way up fractally through the shower, my electric razor, my laptop, and the business center computer downstairs (including the computer chair, the company website, and eventually the internet itself). And since it knew I had to go back up to the third floor, the Universe had one card left to play. All the events of the morning had led me downstairs, and the only place left to go from there was back into the elevator, and by the title of this entry, I think you can infer that I didn't make it to the third floor.
When you become stuck in an elevator, you begin a thought process that basically mirrors the construction of a B.P.D. Eventualities pass through your mind in ascending direness on their way to your imminent panic attack. Hmmm, this is a slow elevator. Really slow. Bet I get stuck, ha ha, I... oh crap, what was that? Nothing, that's what. Just a noise. These old elevators make noises. But they're still safe. I mean, why would they put an elevator in a hotel if it wasn't... oh crap, there it was again. It's not moving. It's not moving. I may be stuck. Am I stuck? Oh CRAP I'm stuck. This isn't happening. This IS happening! I'm damn stuck in an elevator!
I imagine that's what you'd normally think. It was a little different and a lot more simple for me because of the already-in-progress B.D.D.; I went instantly hatstand and started kicking the elevator door and cussing, not because I was stuck but because it was yet ANOTHER damn thing gone wrong. When I finally calmed down, I was more fascinated that panicked, because I'd always wondered what it would be like to get stuck in an elevator, and here now I was. Also because I figured a screeching plummet from the almost-third floor would probably only break most of my bones and not actually kill me.
So what do you do in a stuck elevator? First thought was to call the other FA to have her go to the front desk and let them know I had been captured, but the Universe, ever the chess player, had ensured that my cellphone had no reception. Now I've gotten reception in 20th floor elevators, but not twenty feet off the ground? Classic B.D.D. Next thought, the elevator phone. In most of the elevators I've been in, there is a little box with a phone in it. But since most of those elevators were in Louisiana, the phones were all stolen. But this one was intact, so I picked it up. At that point, I realized I had no idea what number to call. And you can't look up anything in the phone book because you're stuck in an elevator. Luckily, it was one of those jobs that goes directly to the front desk. "Stuck? OK, cool. We'll be there in ten minutes."
Ten minutes later I was out. Ten minutes after that, I had called the crew and told them to use the stairs. And so I survived yet another brush with death. OK, brush with fall from twenty feet. But that probably would have stung a bit.

Speaking of elevators, here's a joke: What's Darth Vader's sister's name?
Ella.