For the last 34 years, Marjorie and I have lived in the “Holy City” of Charleston, South Carolina. We live in a condominium apartment on the third floor of a beautiful, historic three-story Victorian house. Circa 1898. This classic, large house was purchased by a single owner in 1945 for $25,000. Holy Cow!

In the 1980’s this big house was carved up into seven condominium units. Two on the first floor with the porch; three on the second floor; one on the third floor (us); and one in the carriage house in a separate small building in the rear.
Ergo, we live in an attic on the Battery of Charleston, South Carolina. How’s that for a conversation starter? BTW, It’s a penthouse when I sell it.

In 1991, when we bought it, the condo was still recovering from Hurricane Hugo (Sep, 1989). But what a location!! I loved the unit’s lofty look, with large wooden beams in the living area. It was as close I would ever get to a Greenwich Village loft. I’m a New Yorker, ya see.
Marjorie, a native Charlestonian, likes to say, as a kid she thought this was the ugliest house on the peninsula. Now she lives in it. Ironic, yes?

Thank heaven, we have an elevator. It’s considered a limited common area for our condo, because it is only used by second and third floor units. It’s technically an elevette, which means tiny elevator. Its max capacity is 450 lbs. and it holds two regular sized people comfortably.

I’ve already told one exciting elevator story a while ago, (I’m Gonna Die in This Elevator), but this “elevette” is a gift that keeps on giving.  Here’s the sequel.

Almost a year ago, a contractor was painting the inside of the elevator shaft.
They were about to leave for the day and I got a call:

“Mr Scooler, please try to ride the elevator down. We want to make sure all works ok before we leave”

“Sure, I’ll be right down,” I say.  Famous last words.

So, I walked over, forgetting my phone (important detail); stepped in; closed the gate and door behind me;  then pressed “1”.  Smooth ride down “at first”. Just below the second floor…

BANG. BAM. BOOM!

The elevator jammed to a halt with lotsa noise and sparks.

I said, “Oh darn”. (if you believe that, I got a pretty bridge to sell ya).

I was stuck between the second and first floor. I could look up about 4 feet to the second floor. No freakin phone. So I started banging and yelling. By the way, I was fine—just mad and a bit scared. Within 5 minutes (seemed like an hour) one of my neighbors was at the door above me. He got it open within a minute or two and immediately saw my plight. Within moments several contractors joined my neighbors and were discussing how to get me out.
The elevator had not totally passed the second story floor. I could look up and see the door opening and the people above. I did not have a capability to climb up and squeeze through the space opening between the top of my elevator and the floor above. (cause I’m too freakin weak and old)
The solution my neighbors came up with was to lower a small ladder through the space and down to me. I was to then climb the ladder and squeeze my fat belly and butt through what looked like a kinda small opening.
I had visions of being stuck halfway through the opening. Yay.

So I climbed carefully, slowly (that’s my only speed at 86 years old) up the ladder and crawled on my belly like a reptile to navigate the opening.  SUCCESS… sorta. I was prone on the floor out of the elevator. Now, how to get up. I said to my neighbor that I’d crawl to a settee that was on the second floor. I started to crawl. Before I could say “Look at me. I’m a marine”, two big contractors grabbed me under my armpits and stood me up. I said, in my usual smartass manner, “or that’ll work.” So now I’m safely outta the elevator. They found the cause of the problem and fireworks and fixed my elevator. My neighbor, Victor, who is hispanic and speaks with a decided accent, gave me the perfect left-handed compliment. He said, “Mr Scooler, you very strong. You 90?”

“90? ” I exclaimed. “Hell I’m only 86.”
Believe it or not, after thanking my rescuers, I then got back in my “death trap” elevator and rode up to my unit.

Marjorie, who was taking a shower when I left to go down, was oblivious to the whole life-threatening incident. She asked, “Where ya been?” I think I kinda laughed/cried for a moment before telling her the whole damn tale I just related. Ah yes, my sitcom and I still live.

Enuf.