This takes place in the best dorm, the one with roman numeral floors.

And now, for those Bwog readers with nothing much to do this Friday evening, a quick story about elevators and the places they take you, by our correspondent and occasional elevator passenger. You never know what will happen when you’re not paying attention on the elevator ride back to your dorm room.

I found myself on a floor where I’d never been, whose number I did not know.

It was my own damn fault. But let’s blame technology, random accident, our cultural inquisition against boredom. I was on my phone, in the elevator, heard the ding, and stepped out without looking. By the time my phone was back in my pocket, the elevator was gone, and I was too busy taking it all in to care.

It was sunny. It’s hard to remember everything, especially now, but I will always remember the light: bright but not overwhelming, reflected in warm shadows into the few corners it didn’t reach. So many windows open, a warm breeze carrying in the sweet smell of summer air, and the sound of the city, oddly muffled.

“Are you waiting for someone? Sit! Sit with us!”

There were four of them, tossed together on couches in the center of the lounge. I saw now that we were in a suite (and here I thought all the floors were hallway style?), a corridor on either side, facing into what was more a high ceilinged living room than a lounge. David, Aiden, Rachel and Jonathan, they introduced themselves, were casually flung across a worn but comfortable looking collection of couches facing out towards the skyline.

I meant to explain myself and maybe I did, it’s hard to tell. They would have laughed it away- unless they actually did—there was so much laughter, genuine, not those barks of nervous introduction or punctuating politeness, and soon I got caught up in it. I was laughing harder than I had since, well high school maybe, and it poured out of me so strong, wild after being pent up for so long, that I thought it couldn’t possibly end.

We talked through the afternoon about philosophy and literature and Aiden’s dog and books that could absolutely not be considered literature; about Jonathan’s disastrous first date and how Rachel had gamed her elementary school’s Casino-for-a-day. We drank. First red wine in the largest bottle I’d ever seen—a jug really—and then champagne. When I asked, David told me he was the RA, putting a finger to his lips.

Everyone was taking four classes. “Except,” Jonathan said to me, grasping my shoulder with his wavering hand, “for Rachel, who dares impose on our sanctuary of mutual self destruction with her five, not to mention her applied physics major.” “Because I love it! Ass.” “You see,” Jonathan pulled me close, “ with two philosophy majors, and the next great American bullshitter” — gesturing to David — “we gentlemen have formed a pact of thoroughly pleasurable, slow-acting suicide (professionally speaking, of course). Which Rachel spoils.” “We’ll be alright,” David said from his corner.

And we talked about what we wanted and who we thought we were, and where we might go one day. The light faded and the room got just a little bit chilly, and blindly, stupidly drunk I stumbled back to the elevator, while assuring that yes, I was okay, and that yes, I’d come back to visit the next day.

I tried for the longest time to get back. When I woke up, the first thing I did after my shower was press the button for every floor. Besides a few dirty looks, all I found was confusion. The elevator didn’t take me back to the lounge.

I experimented, browsing on my phone to try to recreate my steps, but I couldn’t force it. It has to happen by accident I think. I decided to let my new friends find me if they wanted, and move on with my life.

Still, my little adventure did stay in my mind. That’s why, when I looked up one morning from my phone to see the elevator doors opening to a floor I did not recognize, I decided to explore.

It’s cold here.

I’m not sure if it’s winter or just aggressively air-conditioned. The hall may stretch far farther than I’ve been able to go, but all I’ve found are more doors. I can’t even tell if it’s day or night.

I stick by the elevators. I know they work, even if I haven’t been able to catch one yet. The sound of doors closing is what always wakes me when I fall asleep.

I’m always hungry, thirsty, never too much but constantly.

There are others here with me. I never see them, but I can hear phone interviews coming from down the hall sometimes, and occasionally, I’ll get a whiff of Smirnoff, wafting from under a door.

I don’t know how long it’s been. My phone died a while ago.

I’ll get out, I know that.

I laugh here, too. Sometimes for a long time. I couldn’t say why.

It’s just very cold here.

Elevator doors of destiny via Shutterstock