Within the freight elevator, the old Mr. Pointe spends a day’s eternity. Through the wire mesh at the bottom of the shaft a maintenance man hovers over a dark wheel. Spinning ratchets and dull greased pulleys. In Mr. Pointe’s cab are the necessary items of faith. There are old Christmas lights tangled and burned beyond repair. A toy mouse with a rusty grin is affixed to a switchbox. The cab’s color is sky blue, lit by a single raw bulb. Outside the cage the subsequent dark shafts appear endless. Mt. Pointe has no teeth. His neck seems to have been broken once. There is a religious calendar with a painting of wise men in a desert. There are certain exact dates circled in red meticulously. A plastic rose is woven through the links of the mesh. A ripped picture of a beautiful young woman by the sea is taped to a small panel. The girl is photogenic but very shy. Long dark hair covers her eyes. A brown newspaper clipping without a headline flips down only secured by a piece of tape at the bottom now. The words are faded and gone. The story was about Mr. Pointe’s friends from long ago who won all that money. Mr. Pointe believes in luck. A buzzer blares from the top of the shaft and Mr. Pointe secures the stretching cab gate and bolts it down. As the ascent begins, Mr. Pointe yells to the floors above. He complains about their lateness. A camera blinks a blue eye from the far corner of the cab. It’s cool lens is docile and thoughtless, as the cab ascends up through the abysmal space.

X. F. Pine