Welcome to the world of
                       Michael G Kimber

The Nightwriter

John was not given to coarse language, but the words in his thoughts did not match those that came from his mouth.
    “Sod it!” he muttered, as the lift juddered to a halt, it’s top half just above the sixth floor. He was alone so there was no-one to bear witness to his rare, if mild, expletive.  “Dam and blast.” he cursed, this time a little louder “if I’m not f . . . . . g blessed.” But just the same, he couldn’t quite say the word.. He looked around for an emergency button, or some means of communication, and there at the bottom of the panel he found it.  ‘Press in case of emergency’ it said.  He pressed it, and was surprised to hear the sound of music disappear. Surprised, because until it stopped he hadn’t much noticed it, but somehow he felt that it had been familiar
    “Can I help you?”   a voice enquired, slightly squeaky, but not entirely unpleasant, bringing him back to the business at hand.
    John couldn't tell where the new voice came from, but he knew at once that it was not from the same source as the music, which now eluded him.
    “Yes - the lift has stopped”
    “Alright” said the voice apparently unworried, “Don't go away; we'll get someone to help you.”
   John could not detect much from the voice, other than that it was female. There didn’t seem to be any emotion; no concern or sense of urgency. Even less a sense of humour, and yet, had  she not just made a joke?
     He waited quite a while in silence expecting some further communication from the voice; perhaps some indication of how long he might expect to wait before he was released. There was none. Looking at his wristwatch didn’t help either, as he hadn't noticed the time when he stepped into the lift and therefore didn't know exactly how long he had been its prisoner. Two minutes later (which seemed like half an hour) he looked again. On that basis he guessed he had been stuck about twenty minutes, and apart from that brief exchange he had heard nothing from the outside world.
    Cautiously he pressed the emergency button again. He couldn't help wondering if anyone else thought that his plight was an emergency.
    “Can I help you?” the voice enquired. Exactly as before, and with no apparent recognition.
     “It's me again” John said, a little tetchily, but not wanting to sound too annoyed.  After all, he reasoned, she could keep me here for a long time.
    “Who is me?” the voice asked, but with no more - or no less - engagement than before.
    “You know - the man in the lift”
    “You still there then?”
    “Of course I am; the lift is stuck; remember?” Unexpectedly; indeed remarkably for him, he spoke with a degree of anger “Will you please send someone to get me out?”
    That modest but positive change in his manner seemed to have had some effect, for the voice responded, for the first time, with something like concern.
    “Sorry,” it said, “I didn’t realize you were still there.”
    John resisted the urge to swear. He usually did. “Just get me out please. Oh, and while I’m waiting, can I have the music back on?”
    “You sure?”
    “Yes please.”
    There was no further response, but a sound somewhere; something less than a click but quite discernable, was followed by the same music he had subconsciously heard when he entered the lift.

          . . . . . when we started painting the town, we’d  have                                                                                                   been ware that our love affair was too hot not to
         cool down. So goodbye dear and . . .

     John’s thoughts took over as the song continued.. Funny thing really, for he was on his way to say goodbye, but he didn’t think it would be as easy as Frank Sinatra was suggesting.
    He had met Suzannah a couple of months ago at a disco after being persuaded by two of his mates to go.  “It’ll be a waste of time;” he protested “you know I’ll spend the night drinking at the bar while you are dancing; and at twice the price. I’ll be better off down at the Queens.”  They wouldn’t listen though, and at first he was right in his prediction; he was, as he expected, alone at the bar. Until that is, this vision stood in front of him.
    “You John?” she enquired.
    “Yes.”
    “Your mates Terry and . . . can’t remember the others name . . . sent me to get you.” she held out her hand “Come on.”
    “But I can’t dance.”
    “Course you can. Everyone can.  Even if you only wiggle your bum.” She laughed  at that, and John laughed too.  A little nervously true, but he allowed himself to be lead onto the dance floor.

         It was just one of those things; just one of those                             crazy things; one of those bells that now and then                            rings;  just one of those things . . .

    A small lurch had brought John out of his thoughts just in time to hear Frank start the song again. “Was it Frank Sinatra?” he wondered.  If not he was a good imitator. He could hear the faint but reassuring noises of someone in the lift shaft. Help was on the way, but  Frank, unaware of the drama in that vertical tunnel continued to croon, while John remembered again that first night with Suzannah.
    “Suzannah” John said the name out loud, confident that no-one could hear.  He had never been in love before, and he wasn’t sure quite what to make of it. But Suzannah knew what to make of it, and soon made it clear that she fancied this tall well built young man.  Just how much she liked than, he was to find out that very night.
    Brushing aside any protests of incompetence on the dance floor she soon had him moving and swaying. Not too close at first, but close enough for John to feel her aura, and to be aware of some envious glances from some of the other lads.  Some were acting out John’s usual role as wallflowers, while others, more experienced maybe, looked over the shoulders of their partners, aware that tonight John had a better chance than they of hitting the jackpot.
     Oblivious of his good fortune John did his best to look good on the dance floor, and somewhat to his surprise found that, far from being like a fish out of water, he was managing quite well.  He was an athletic young man and he had, undefinable until now, a natural sense of rhythm. Lucky for him, for at one point, with no apparent warning she launched herself at him. He caught her chest to chest, and twisting perfectly to her momentum grasped her arm and  launched her into spin, and, as if it were choreographed, she returned  into his arms. She was in ecstasy at the move thinking that she had found a new champion. John however was in a state of near shock, for not only had that manoeuvre been an incredible piece of good fortune, he now had in his arms the most gorgeous girl in the hall, whose lips were just inches from his.  Even more incredibly, she was making no attempt to move away.
    “Have you been holding out on me?” Suzannah asked, the tip of her nose now brushing his.
    “What do you mean?” he asked breathlessly, partly from the exertion, but more because he could feel her body pressed against his.  He could feel her breasts against his chest, while lower down her hips were pressed firmly against his, slowly moving right and left, making no concessions to his growing sense of excitement.
     “You said you couldn’t dance.” She moved a little, until their lips lightly touched.
    “Well maybe a bit.” he replied, and in doing so allowed her mouth to close on his, and he felt the tip of her tongue as it searched for a mate. His heart was pounding, and the drumming in his head was louder than that from the stage.  He didn’t know what to do, but neither did he want it to stop. He had always been a bit shy with girls, but he wasn’t that daft to realise that tonight could be the night that dreams are made of.
    That was when his knees buckled.
    “You alright?” Suzannah was asking, her passion changing to compassion, as John started to wilt before her.
    “I think I could use some air.”
    “Good idea.”
    As they left the dance hall John didn’t hear the calls or see the gestures from his friends.  They were not aware of how John was feeling, seeing only that at last the one virgin in their trio was about to get a crash course in love. Neither would have bet against, that come tomorrow, their friend the boy, would not be their friend the man.
     So began their love affair. At least John thought it was love. The girls he had met before had usually been as shy as he, so progress - if any - was always slow; and never conclusive. There had been a few occasions when explorations had exceeded expectations, but always one or the other had developed cold feet and the encounter would come to an embarrassing end.  But not this time. Suzannah fancied John because he was a big man.  Big and strong and fit; just as she liked them. And when his friends had told her that he was as yet in ‘pristine’ condition, she had been unable to resist the challenge.  
    But it was no contest; John was swept away - starting that very night behind the dance hall - on a magic carpet of love. His enthusiasm and willingness to learn, added to her experience and knowledge in the ways of the world, took them at breakneck speed to the very heights of ecstasy, to the summit of Everest, to the moon and the stars.

             It was just one of those nights, just one of                                      those fabulous flights, a trip to the moon on                                    gossamer wings . . .
 
     Another sound had brought John back to reality.  The sound of someone banging on the lift door.
    “You alright in there?” someone was calling, “won’t be long now.” and, he realised, Frank was still singing.
    “Some trip.” . . .  just one of those things . . .   John mouthed the words almost silently as he tried to remember the blur of the last couple of months, but the music was starting to get on his nerves again.  Once more he pressed the emergency button.
    “Can I help you?” the now familiar and slightly softer voice said.
    “It’s me again,” John answered rather pointlessly “can you do anything about the music?”
    “Oh, don’t you like it ... It’s one of my favourites.”
    “Yes, the songs’ alright, it’s just that it is playing over and over.  Isn’t there something else?”
    “Sorry about that. It is a continuous loop, and most people aren’t in the lift long enough to hear it more than once.  We do change it every day.”
    “Well that’s alright then, at least I have something to look forward to.”
    It wasn’t intended to be funny, but the remark made her laugh. “Silly; I didn’t mean that . . . shall I put something else on?”
    Before he could answer there was a sound like a rusty gate being opened for the first time in a hundred years, as the lift door was prized open two inches. John moved forward where he found, somewhat to his surprise, that he was roughly eyeball to eyeball with the lift engineer, who was lying on the floor.
    “Shouldn’t be long now.” the eyeball said
    John could not help the feeling of relief, but as reality returned he heard another sound.  Lots and lots of people. He looked at his watch. Five Thirty Three.
    “Sod it.” he said again, knowing that he had missed her. Suzannah worked in an office on the ninth floor.  He had intended to meet her and to finish the affair, but he knew that she would be gone before he was released.  Ah’ well; that would have to wait. As the sound of walking feet and other lifts continued, he suddenly felt rather lonely.  The music had stopped. He pressed the red button again.
    “Hello.” said the voice from behind the panel, and for the first time detected some warmth “I hear they will soon have you out, are you OK? . . .  would you like a cup of tea?”
    “Yes please, and can you put the music back on.  I’ll put up with Frank Sinatra.”
     Almost at once the voice of‘Old Blue-eyes was filling the small space which had been John’s prison for the last hour or so.  

           If we’d thought a bit, bout the end of it when                                    we started painting the town; we’d have been aware                         that our love affair was too hot not to cool down . . . .

    John remembered the feeling of dismay when he discovered that when it came to her affections, Suzannah was very generous, happy to share them with more than one man at a time. Worse was the discovery that however she might describe her relationship with John, it wasn’t love. He had to admit that she had never claimed it to be so. It just never occurred to him that this, the biggest love of his life, was not hers too.
    “But my; was it hot?”  He smiled as he remembered the words he had just heard. ‘I guess it had to cool down’, he mimicked.

          So goodbye dear and amen, here’s hoping we meet                            now and then; it was great fun, but it was just one                           of those things.

    Just as those words filled the space the lift door creaked noisily open, and he could see two pairs of feet; one in heavy boots, while the others were lightly clad and feminine.
    “Do you think you can scramble out of there?” said the boots “give me your hands and I’ll try to pull you.”
But before he could make a move something else came into his view.  A beaker. And though he could not see it’s contents at eye level, he could see the steam.  Then a face appeared; a pretty face “Hello,” it said “can I help you?” but this time the voice came with a lovely smile.
    Five minutes later, refreshed and free, John was able to take stock of the situation.  All the office staff had gone, so he had missed the chance to see Suzannah to put things straight. No matter; some other time would do; and anyway, it didn’t seem to matter any more.  
    Jennifer seemed like a nice girl; ‘everyone calls me Jenny’ she had told him. She had stayed on past her time,  and then had agreed to go out with him to celebrate his great escape. He could tell she was shy like the others, but somehow he felt that he could cope with that now. They left the lift in the capable hands of the engineer, and as they walked away they heard once again the opening line of that song . . .

           It was just one of those things, just one of tho. . .               

then it was gone.
    As he took hold of Jenny’s hand John thought briefly once more of Suzannah. ‘Sure it will be nice to see her again sometime, but I guess I can live with it if I don’t.


*Footnote. Few people will fail to recognise the words of the wonderful  1935 Cole Porter song ‘Just One Of The Things’ used throughout this story.
Those words are his, now and forever, and there is no intention on my part to claim  any credit for them.