I walk over to the elevator and saw the display, indicating it was still on the lobby level. I hit the button and the doors opened. The first thing I saw was a homeless man, his shirt pulled up to expose his big dirty belly, and his pants dropped around his ankles. I didn't see his genitals, because there was a woman on her knees in front of him, blocking the view with her mouth.
"Oh, f*ck no!" I yelled. Caught by surprise, she scrambles to her feet. He fastens his pants and pulls down his shirt, laughing to himself the entire time. I'm livid. I pull out my cell phone and dial my landlord's office. While I wait for it to connect, I'm ushering them out the door, "Get the f*ck out of here!"
Later, the door was finally fixed. Celia still has an uneasy feeling about it all:
What if it had been two men, not having sex in the elevator, but ready to rape and pillage whichever lucky resident called the elevator up?
Jim continued, "What if any of the other women in this building called the elevator up?"
I didn't want to think about it, didn't want to admit that we live on a dangerous street full of desperate people, that there was fresh gang graffiti on the building next door. I didn't want to think of any number of close calls I might've had, how badly things could've turned out.
Later that night, I looked out our windows at the quiet city below. A siren shattered the stillness of the night and I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn't riding in that ambulance, or waiting for it to arrive.
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