InsaneJournal

Who: Robert Drayton.
What: Oh bother. Damn you elevators!
Where: The elevator.
When: Today in the evening.
Warnings: None at the moment.
Notes:


Unlike most of the current tenants in the building, Robert didn't know nor cared about the events that transpired between themselves. Having just moved in, he could already see his original intent and hope that it would be a quiet building were dashed. Far move from where I was, he thought. In all reality, he hadn't wanted to move. Going away from what he deemed to be his home base gave him a weird unsettled feeling in a way no one else could. But he had to. It was the best decision for his music and more producers were willing to sign in New York than Memphis (waaay too many blues players out there).

Speaking of which, it was time for him to go to the studio and practice. Hopefully he would be able to record a few sessions, listen to the end result and get one step closer to making a full-fledge demo.

So he stepped into the elevator from the second floor, pressed for the ground floor, and waited. The car began to slide down then paused, as though it was thinking, before moving up. It reached halfway between the fourth and fifth floor before stopping altogether, the regular lights switching off to the emergency lights. Staring, he pressed the ground floor.

Nothing.

So he pressed another floor.

Still nothing.

"Well shit," he muttered.

After pressing all the buttons on the panel (nope, nothing), he searched for a phone, but thanks to the miracle of antique elevators, it seemed when people were stuck in elevators back then they just sat in a corner and waited to die. Since Robert didn't enjoy the idea of screaming and wailing, he merely banged on the door once before settling on the floor, pulling out his harmonica from his jacket pocket, and began playing a tune which sounded suspiciously like Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues. Someone will need to use the elevator eventually. Then he'd get out.

Hopefully.