The Elevator Operator

The Elevator Operator    A true Story of finding a long lost friend of 40 years….

Thinking about my dad,  reminds me about  the Elevator Operator , Laverne, ( not her real name.) I met Laverne just after my dad died. I was seven. Mum had a thing about going shopping every Friday night at the biggest department store in town. It  boasted the best “lift” in town. Every Friday we would go to the store, and mum  would  allow me to ride the elevator, complete with its brass cage, and real live Elevator Operator. (That would be Laverne.)

 It felt so good to ride the elevator. Just like a magic carpet.  Mum liked Laverne immensely. Thought she was unique.   Laverne was fascinating. She cut quite a figure with her smart grey blue suit, grey stockings, high heeled black pumps  and grey gloves. 

Her hair was equally incredible; piled on top of her head in a tall beehive, with spit curls wafting over her temples. I wondered how every hair stayed in place. She chewed gum. She wore beautiful lipstick that she reapplied frequently.  She was cool. I wanted to be an elevator operator. 

   

To make things easier on my mother, Laverne said it was okay for me to ride up and down the elevator with her. Sometimes, I would do that for the better part of two hours. Mum would go off and shop. Leaving me to practice my elevator skills.  Laverne let me hold the door and greet the patrons. Not sure management would allow that these days.

But back then, it was pretty neato. Once Laverne even got me to buy her a replacement pair of stockings. She had a run, and it wouldn’t do to leave it that way. We stopped at the ladies stocking department , and she gave me a $1 to go get a new pair. Then we ran the “lift”  up to the top of the building, where I waited in the cab while she went and changed. The cab filled up. 

People waited. Asked me if I was in charge. Laverne reappeared. New stockings. Fresh gum. Spit curls perfect. Snapping on her grey gloves she  announced that we were “going down!” Professional to the core.  

There were some Fridays she did not work. I missed her on those days. Other Fridays, when times were quiet  and the elevator was empty she would stand at the open door, smoothing her spit curls, and tell me stories about her family. She bought me ice cream and gum. Mostly we just talked about stuff. She treated me like I was  important and mattered. She showed such belief in me, such respect. She  laughed with me.  Told me to always go forwards in life. To be honest. To be kind. To be unique.  To laugh and laugh.

And then , all of a sudden, five years later, there were no more Fridays. The elevators were shut down.  There were no more visits. I was a teenager by then. Along came high school, graduation, University, then grad school in the states.  Laverne was put  away in my thoughts. Years flew by. I would wonder what elevator Laverne was working. Thought about  how much I would love to talk to her. Tell her how much she  meant to me. Tell her what I was doing.

Then more years toddled by: Mum  died, marriage, children, military postings to Petawawa, Ontario, Cornwallis, Nova Scotia, Fredericton, New Brunswick, Kingston, Ontario, St. Albert , Alberta, White Rock, British Columbia. So many moves. We were on the Island, in Campbell River. And I thought of Laverne again.

  Then  time stood stock still one day, the summer of 2012……

An ad flicked by on the t.v. An ad with an email, for a business with a name I recognized.  I remembered that particular name because Laverne had mentioned it to me one day, way back when. A name from her family. The  name was distinctive. It had to be the same family. Something in my brain  twigged.  I  took a chance and emailed, then waited on pins and needles to see if there would be a reply. I was sure no one would  answer. 40 years had gone by. Surely no one  would believe me. Sure enough a couple days later I got a reply. I had  explained in my email  about my connection to Laverne,  and if there was any way  I could re-connect with her. Most importantly: Did she remember me? I got the answer I hoped for: Yes.  She remembers you. I was given a phone number to call………..

You know that sensation you get when you’re in an elevator that’s going too fast, and you feel like part of you just wants to fly? 

   Laverne and I  finally spoke on the phone. The person who was my mentor, after my father had died. The person who made  Fridays  an adventure. Someone I looked up to. She sounded the same, after all those years,  still the same  Laverne. We got to  see each other,  a few months later, when my family  drove down to the big city. A surreal experience walking up to her front door. 

 After 40 years, that door opened, just like the elevator door from so long ago, and there she was. The beehive was gone, as were the spit curls , but Laverne was  there. Like she always had been.  Like no time had passed. I always promised myself I would find her. One day. And I found her.

 As time toddled onwards I never did resurrect my idea of being an elevator operator. Couldn’t find an elevator I liked.

 I cherish each moment we  speak. We  set aside time every week,  for each other, for a phone call so we can speak long distance. But she could be living right next door. It’s amazing that one person can make a difference.  Life can be wondrous, and friendship a great gift. There were times I thought I would never find her. To have lost. Then found.  To laugh and laugh. Such a gift  is this.