To the age-old half-serious question of whether a passenger barrelling earthward in a runaway elevator should jump in the air just before impact, Pulling responded, as vertical-transportation professionals ceaselessly must, that you can’t jump up fast enough to counteract the rate of descent. “And how are you supposed to know when to jump?” he said. As for an alternative strategy—lie flat on the floor?—he shrugged: “Dead’s dead.”
All through the building, you could hear the clicking and whirring of elevators. We rode up to the twenty-eighth floor, a single vast room, with various hoistway openings in the floor, like crevasses. Men in hard hats were futzing with a control panel. “We’re interpreting the data before we proceed,” one of them said. In a corner was the 70T, a fourteen-ton turbine of steel about the size of a VW Beetle, capable of hauling seventy tons at fifty feet a second. In another corner there was a full-sized working replica of the “Improved Hoisting Apparatus,” a suspended wooden platform that looked a bit like a gallows, which Elisha Otis had débuted at the Crystal Palace, in 1854, to demonstrate his new brake. Standing on the platform, high above the ground, he had an assistant cut the hoist rope with an axe, and before the platform could fall a wagon spring engaged a toggle on a cogged rail, and the hoisting apparatus held.
From one incarnation to the other, the basic principles—car, sheave, rope, safety—remain the same. With the exception of a few quantum leaps—steel cable, electricity, microprocessing—elevator advancements have been subtle and incremental. On the twenty-fifth floor, we came across evidence of one: spools of flat, rubbery-looking cable. In recent years, Otis has introduced flat hoist belts, made of polyurethane threaded with steel, which are lighter, stronger, and more energy-efficient than the old steel ropes. (Otis gave its employees gifts of belts made out of the cable.) The flat cables have made possible much smaller machines, facilitating the proliferation of what are called, rather inelegantly, “machineroomless” elevators. A machine the size of a marmot, rather than of a moose, can be installed in the shaft, rather than in a room of its own, freeing up space for architects and landlords. This is what passes for cutting edge.
The big ideas tend to falter on the laws of physics. A single elevator can climb no higher than seventeen hundred feet. A hoist rope any longer is too heavy to be practical; at thirty-two hundred feet, it will snap, like a stream of spit in a stairwell. A decade ago, Otis developed a prototype of a conveyance called Odyssey, which could slide out of its shaft and travel on a horizontal track to another shaft, with the help of a linear induction motor. It was scuttled by the 1997 Asian financial crisis. The rising cost of electricity has confounded other lofty dreams, like the ropeless elevator.
We rode downstairs, to an immaculate warehouse space called the Quality Assurance Center—“The engineer’s playground,” Pulling called it—where Otis components were subjected to wear-and-tear tests. Kiln-like machines exposed parts to heavy doses of heat, dust, and salt fog. Hoist belts underwent twenty years of jerking and pulling in a few months. The only hint of novelty, of futuristic aspiration and delight—of Willy Wonka’s flying glass elevator or Colson Whitehead’s black box or the long-imagined elevator to the moon—was a hundred-foot-long gray mat. It happened to trace Odyssey’s vestigial test course—the abandoned big idea. Perhaps the ambivalence, if not aversion, that people seem to feel toward the elevator derives from a sense that it isn’t as fabulous as it should be, near-perfect though it already is.
At a certain point, Nicholas White ran out of ideas. Anger and vindictiveness took root. He began to think, They, whoever they were, shouldn’t be able to get away with this, that he deserved some compensation for the ordeal. He cast about for blame. He wondered where his colleague was, why she hadn’t been alarmed enough by his failure to return, jacketless, from smoking a cigarette to call security. Whose fault is this? he wondered. Who’s going to pay? He decided that there was no way he was going to work the following week.
And then he gave up. The time passed in a kind of degraded fever dream. On the videotape, he lies motionless for hours at a time, face down on the floor.
A voice woke him up: “Is there someone in there?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing in there?”
White tried to explain; the voice in the intercom seemed to assume that he was an intruder. “Get me the fuck out of here!” White shrieked. Duly persuaded, the guard asked him if he wanted anything. White, who had been planning to join a few friends at a bar on Friday evening, asked for a beer.
Before long, an elevator-maintenance team arrived and, over the intercom, coached him through a set of maneuvers with the buttons. White asked what day it was, and, when they told him it was Sunday at 4 P.M., he was shocked. He had been trapped for forty-one hours. He felt a change in the breeze, which suggested that the elevator was moving. When he felt it slow again, he wrenched the door open, and there was the lobby. In his memory, he had to climb up onto the landing, but the video does not corroborate this. When he emerged from the elevator, he saw his friends, with a couple of security guards, and a maintenance man, waiting, with an empty chair. His friends turned to see him and were appalled at the sight; he looked like a ghost, one of them said later. The security guard handed him an open Heineken. He took one sip but found the beer repellent, like Hans Castorp with his Maria Mancini cigar. White told a guard, “Somebody could’ve died in there.”
“I know,” the guard said.
White had to go upstairs to get his jacket. He demanded that the guards come with him, and so they rode together on the service elevator, with the elevator operator. The presence of others with radios put him at ease. In his office he found that his co-worker, in a fit of pique over his disappearance, had written an angry screed, and taped it to his computer screen, for all their colleagues to see. He went home, and then headed to a bar. He woke up to a reel of phone messages and a horde of reporters colonizing his stoop. He barely left his apartment in the ensuing days, deputizing his friends to talk to reporters through a crack in the door.
White never went back to work at the magazine. Caught up in media attention (which he shunned but thrilled to), prodded by friends, and perhaps provoked by overly solicitous overtures from McGraw-Hill, White fell under the sway of renown and grievance, and then that of the legal establishment. He got a lawyer, and came to believe that returning to work might signal a degree of mental fitness detrimental to litigation. Instead, he spent eight weeks in Anguilla. Eventually, Business Week had to let him go. The lawsuit he filed, for twenty-five million dollars, against the building’s management and the elevator-maintenance company, took four years. They settled for an amount that White is not allowed to disclose, but he will not contest that it was a low number, hardly six figures. He never learned why the elevator stopped; there was talk of a power dip, but nothing definite. Meanwhile, White no longer had his job, which he’d held for fifteen years, and lost all contact with his former colleagues. He lost his apartment, spent all his money, and searched, mostly in vain, for paying work. He is currently unemployed.
Looking back on the experience now, with a peculiarly melancholic kind of bewilderment, he recognizes that he walked onto an elevator one night, with his life in one kind of shape, and emerged from it with his life in another. Still, he now sees that it wasn’t so much the elevator that changed him as his reaction to it. He has come to terms with the trauma of the experience but not with his decision to pursue a lawsuit instead of returning to work. If anything, it prolonged the entrapment. He won’t blame the elevator. ♦
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This article was originally posted at https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2008/04/21/up-and-then-down
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