ELEVATOR | Suri Phillips
I wake up inside the elevator. I am naked or wearing an invisible suit. I am surrounded by lawyers carrying barracuda briefcases. I am shivering a little. I need caffeine. I look at the lawyers, they have snow gray eyes and their faces look like cliffs. I look at the elongated predacious fish moving slowly to and fro inside their glass briefcases. I feel sympathy for the barracudas, for they are so far from home, as I am still so far from my rooftop lawn.The lawyers are speaking in a foreign language. All I can understand is the word latte, and it gives me hope. I touch the button on the wall, and immediately it begins to rain inside the elevator. The lawyers open their umbrellas, but they don't offer me one. They don't see me, or they see right through me, or they just want to keep the relationship professional. My hair is soaking wet. One of the lawyers is my mother. Her barracuda is wearing a small fur jacket made of unborn Crimean lamb. The water in her glass briefcase is turning red. It keeps raining. I just hold on tight to my scrabble board. All the words are already there. It is where I keep all my secret identities: superhero, souffle, suburban lawn. I'll know what to say when I finally reach the top. I am one helluva lawn with a view. I take my caffeine with two lumps of honey. I am home.
I wake up inside the elevator. I am naked or wearing an invisible suit. I am surrounded by lawyers carrying barracuda briefcases. I am shivering a little. I need caffeine. I look at the lawyers, they have snow gray eyes and their faces look like cliffs. I look at the elongated predacious fish moving slowly to and fro inside their glass briefcases. I feel sympathy for the barracudas, for they are so far from home, as I am still so far from my rooftop lawn.The lawyers are speaking in a foreign language. All I can understand is the word latte, and it gives me hope. I touch the button on the wall, and immediately it begins to rain inside the elevator. The lawyers open their umbrellas, but they don't offer me one. They don't see me, or they see right through me, or they just want to keep the relationship professional. My hair is soaking wet. One of the lawyers is my mother. Her barracuda is wearing a small fur jacket made of unborn Crimean lamb. The water in her glass briefcase is turning red. It keeps raining. I just hold on tight to my scrabble board. All the words are already there. It is where I keep all my secret identities: superhero, souffle, suburban lawn. I'll know what to say when I finally reach the top. I am one helluva lawn with a view. I take my caffeine with two lumps of honey. I am home.