On the cusp of finishing his degree in social work, Michael discovers the truth about a homeless man’s cardboard box. (7 minute read)
Michael popped out an earbud and lifted his gaze as he approached the intersection. He scanned to make sure no vehicle was turning right, then he stepped into the crosswalk.
He hitched a thumb under the strap on his shoulder to shift the weight of his backpack. One more semester. Those words had become his mantra during the past two weeks. Working double shifts to catch-up on bills had turned his days into a vacuum. Get up, go to work, go to the other job, go to bed. Get up, go to work, go to the other job, go to bed. His soul felt compressed into a vortex where life threatened to lose meaning.
One more semester. He only had six more credit hours to complete when school started back up in August. Once finished, he would finally get to make a true impact. No more of this assistant-to-the-assistant crap most of these clinics called him. Or being given the passive shrug from his clients that screamed, “Whatever, it’s not like you’re a real therapist.” He would be a fully licensed social worker. People would have to—
“My elevator will take you places you’ve only dreamed of!”
The maniacal shout of a strained voice pulled Michael out of his reverie. He stepped onto the curb on the opposite side of the street and glanced over. Half a block down the sidewalk, a disheveled man stood beside a large cardboard box while giving animated gestures to the people walking past him. Michael blinked and looked again. Where had such a bizarre person materialized from? The six-block stretch between Michael’s two jobs had become as routine as his morning path from the bedroom to the bathroom. He knew every tree, shop door, and bump of concrete along this stretch of road. Was it possible he never noticed the man before?
“Please, please!” The beggar reached out a hand toward a man who recoiled and pulled away. “Step into my elevator. Just a quick ride?”
Michael paused and pulled out the other earbud. Five years of study and four years of clinical work caused him to see the world far different from the average person. What most presumed to be a dangerous psychopath, Michael saw as someone who qualified for in-patient care to get stabilized. He noted the reddened eyes, cracked lips, and trembling hands. This man wasn’t looking for a victim. He was lost in a world where he did not know where to look for help.
A glance at his watch revealed the time: one-forty-two. Michael had 18 minutes to walk four more blocks to the Odyssey Home for Youth to make his two o’clock appointment. He sucked in his lips as he calculated the timetable. As long as he didn’t allow the guy to drag him into a full conversation, he could manage the detour. A quick check-in to see if the guy was amicable to getting assistance.
He slung his backpack from his shoulder to the crook of his elbow and unzipped the front pocket. A clear, plastic bag held an assortment of items for just such an occasion. Michael cupped the care package with one hand and returned the backpack to his shoulder. With a friendly smile, he marched toward the figure everyone else stepped into the gutter to avoid as they averted their eyes.
“Hello.” Michael paused several feet away so as not to startle the man.
Matted hair flopped and bounced as a dirty face snapped toward Michael. Bloodshot lines swirled around hazel eyes. Leathery skin on his neck and hands displayed the telltale scars of wounds that struggled to heal. “Do you want to ride on my elevator?”
The hoarseness in his voice gave evidence to dehydration. More indications plagued the rest of his appearance. Crusted blood on his cracked lips. A thick layer of yellowish plaque coated his tongue. Which explained the strings of coagulated saliva drawing lines between his upper and lower lips.
“Well, first, I thought you could use some of this.” Michael extended his arm to show the care package. He gave the bag a gentle shake to stress the slosh of liquid from the water bottle inside.
Harried eyes remained fixed on Michael. “My elevator will take you to wonderful heights.”
His breath turned husky. Was speaking without shouting difficult for this man?
“My name is Michael. What’s yours?”
The man seemed to stare in confusion. Perhaps he was hard of hearing as well.
“Do you have a name?” Michael asked, a little louder than before.
The man’s shoulders slumped. “Please, take a ride in my elevator.”
A cardboard box sat pressed against the stucco wall. It came to the man’s waist and was long enough for a grown man to sleep in. Dark splotches pocked the sides and clustered along the bottom edges. The faint hint of urine wafted toward Michael. He didn’t wrinkle his nose. Far worse odors immersed him at the detox center while accruing clinic hours during last year’s summer recess.
“It’s the best elevator you will ever ride.” The man raised a trembling hand and waved it in an arching motion. “It reaches to a place of dreams.”
“I want to see your elevator, but I only ride with people I know.” Michael adjusted his smile into a soft grin, continuing to hold out the package. “What is your name?”
With a furrowed brow, the man huffed through his teeth. Then he swiveled his head down to his shoulder and pulled his arms into a pretzel fold over his chest. “Darrell.” The word tripped behind a clenched jaw.
“Your name is Darrell?” Michael said.
Lips curled and twitched as the man fought against more words trapped under his tongue.
“Well, it’s good to meet you, Darrell. Would you like to hold on to these for me while I look at your elevator?”
Darrell’s eyebrows sprang up, as did his posture. “Yes, yes! Come see my elevator!”
Michael watched Darrell amble backward. Careful not to sigh, or show any other signs of irritation, Michael lowered his hand from holding out the care package. He took a few steps forward. Darrell’s intense stare never wavered as he swung one leg over the edge of the box and motioned for Michael to come closer.
The cardboard walls were half an inch thick. Possibly used for a large capacity freezer in its former life. A single, dirty blanket lurked in the far corner. Darrell waved an urgent hand as he eased his other leg into the box.
“Come in.” Darrell took a step back, making room for his passenger. “This elevator is going to take us all the way to the top.”
With a nod, Michael lifted his leg and stepped into the box. The tremors in Darrell’s hands now extended to his neck as well. Dehydration, maybe, or even withdrawal symptoms. This man couldn’t be old enough to have Parkinson’s disease. Michael took care to make a mental note of as many physical characteristics as possible without being obvious. In case he saw this man again tomorrow, Michael wanted to establish a baseline for Darrell.
“Okay.” Michael planted his other foot into the box. “Well, this is quite a nice elevator.”
The words squeezed off in Michael’s throat as golden bars slid up along the edges of the cardboard box. Glass panels wavered into existence between the gaps as the bars grew and stretched overhead, curving inward to form a dome. Michael took a step back, craning his neck, and smacked into cold metal. Two slabs made of gold stood behind him where an open sidewalk once bustled with afternoon traffic.
Darrell began to cackle.
Heat pooled through Michael’s skull. What was happening? Had this transient concocted a hallucinogenic drug that caused a contact high? Meth labs smelled like cat urine. Did any illegal substance smell like human urine? He put out a hand and pressed it against the glass. A smooth, cool surface met his skin. He pressed a little more, then firmer still. It felt so real.
More cackling.
Michael watched as Darrell bent at the waist with arms wrapped around his middle. Incoherent words spilled from his mouth as he raved his maniacal laugh. Michael’s breath came quicker, and he straightened his arms at his sides to settle himself.
A sudden lurch hurled the cardboard-box-turned-elevator-car upward. Michael stumbled against a gold bar, his cheek smacking into the glass. His knees buckled. He caught himself before tumbling to the floor. The care package popped loose of his grip and bounced as Michael pitched a foot out to keep himself upright.
Images rained down as the cityscape sucked beneath them. Nausea swirled through Michael, causing his vision to double. He clamped his eyes shut. Glass vibrated under his hands as he braced himself against the smooth walls.
Michael refused to panic. Five credit hours of yoga and mindfulness classes were going to prove their usefulness. Focus on what you can feel—concentrate on where you are in the space.
He took a deep breath then creaked one eye open to reestablish he was still in a cardboard box on the streets of Salt Lake City. The peek only confirmed what his panicked senses begged him to believe. The ground rushed away from them as a blue sky enveloped the four walls of a glorious container of glass and gold.
“Finally!” Darrell’s laugh echoed along the walls. “I can return.”
Darrell kneeled against the far wall. With both hands cupped over his face, he rocked back and forth, his body swaying to a toneless rhythm.
“What’s happening?” Michael said.
No response. Just the cadence of a man lost among fits of giggles and the occasional coherent word. Michael repeated his question. The words came out far louder and higher pitched than he intended.
Darrell’s head pulled up a few inches. For a moment, he stared into his empty hands. Then his neck pivoted to look at Michael. “We’re going back.”
Several quick breaths helped to calm the tension in Michael’s throat. He nodded. “Okay, we’re going back. I hear what you’re saying. Now, what does ‘going back’ mean to you, Darrell?”
A broad grin broke out across that grimy face. “Back to the place where you will want to return.”
The city resembled little more than a diorama beneath them as the ground continued to pull away.
Michael planted his palms more firmly against the glass walls. “Can you expand on that for me? Describe for me a place where I will want to return.”
“Everything will be clear.” Darrell shifted his gaze upward, his neck almost folding back on itself as he gazed up at the top of the elevator’s dome.
Each breath came a little faster until Michael feared he might hyperventilate. He clamped his eyes shut again, forcing himself to take a single deep inhale, then centered all thought on relaxing his jaw. A relaxed mouth always led to a relaxed mind.
This had to be some kind of stress-induced hallucination. With any luck, at any moment, he would come back to himself, and back to reality. He could still make his two o’clock at Odyssey Home for Youth. Not more than five minutes had passed since introducing himself to this man.
After a few even breaths, Michael opened his eyes. The blue sky around them fizzled into a misty haze. He took this as a sign of the vision dissolving in his mind, not entering a cloud bank, and adjusted himself into a more relaxed stance.
Any moment now… any moment…
He stretched the kinks out of his neck and shook his hands to release the tension. The hazy white around them would become images of stucco and brick.
Several moments later, the stirring whirls of white gave way to a thinner shade of blue. Glints of light flashed around them. More pockets of light sparkled, bigger and brighter, until all Michael could see was a blinding torrent of flashes. The upward thrust of the elevator seemed to ease in response to the display. Michael chose to see this as another good sign. Surely his mind had concluded that it was time to pull out of this fantasy and return to the actual world.
A rattling bump finally indicated the ride was over. He took a deep breath and rubbed a hand across his face. Opening his eyes, he saw fields of lush grasses. Hills rose and flowed outward for what seemed like dozens of miles. Trees littered here and there among groups of people in long, light-colored robes. Some walked along meandering paths while others stood in loose clusters. A tangible sense of joy filled the very air of this place.
Everyone looks so happy. Michael put a hand to the glass.
“Welcome back, Darrell.” A resonant voice boomed into the elevator.
Michael flinched and gaped in the voice’s direction. The two panels of gold had separated as if they were some kind of door. A man stood outside the entrance, who had to be at least seven feet tall. His white robe had a golden sash draped across one shoulder and tied in place at the opposite hip. A full beard framed his face, as did cascading locks of wavy brown hair. Those piercing blue eyes caused Michael’s jaw to fall slack. Could this massive character even be real?
“Thank you, Guardian.” Darrell shook as he pulled to a stand. “I brought a passenger.”
That giant of a man turned to look at Michael. “Yes. He will be a suitable attendant in exchange for your entry.”
His deep voice caused Michael’s chest to vibrate, like when standing next to a car with the bass cranked up.
White fabric swept outward as the man extended his arm toward Darrell. “Enter.”
Darrell wobbled to his feet. His lips twitched as he took shuffling steps toward the door. The robed man placed a hand on Darrell as he approached. Tattered dirty fabric dissolved along Darrell’s skin, replaced with a pale blue robe. Matted hair fell loose as if brushed by an unseen hand. Scarred and crusted skin became an even olive complexion. The man who less than ten minutes ago was scaring passersby on the street now resembled something out of a mythical painting. He stood tall and proud. Majestic cloth flowed behind him as he strode out of the elevator.
“I’m finally back.” Darrell spread both hands in the air.
Michael took a step forward. The Guardian, as Darrell called him, placed a hand on Michael’s chest.
“You are now the steward.” The Guardian lowered his head to get at eye level.
“What do you mean?” Michael tried to push the hand away so this stranger would stop blocking his view.
Was it possible to smell happiness? Was it possible to taste its very existence in the air? He stepped aside to move out of the Guardian’s reach. That large hand gripped Michael’s arm.
“You are the new steward of this elevator. You cannot exit until you gain a passenger.” The Guardian gave him a firm stare.
“I want to see what this place is.”
Michael could feel the tangible joy settling on his skin and burrowing into his pores. His need to gain entry existed on a level he did not have words to describe. How did his soul never realize the desert he wandered back in his former life? A glorious drink of water awaited his spirit, and he had to taste it. He had to.
Another hand gripped Michael’s other arm, biting into the skin. He did not possess enough space in his mind to care. Let that Guardian rip his arms off for all Michael cared. If he could just step into this place, it would be worth any price. Even a limb.
The Guardian lifted Michael and tossed him to the back of the elevator. “Obtain a passenger and you may return.”
Michael jumped to his feet as the two gold panels slid closed. He didn’t move fast enough. His hands slapped along the edges, desperate to locate a button or lever which might open the doors.
A sudden jolt seized the elevator. Michael gasped. It was going down. The elevator would return to the street with him trapped inside. He slammed a fist against the door.
“Let me out.” The words ripped from his throat. “Don’t send me back.”
Billowing white shrouded against the glass. Michael gripped the sides of his head.
“No, no, no.”
He beat a fist against the glass. Then he mule-kicked it.
Nothing.
“Take me back.” Michael clawed his hands into his hair and crumpled against the door.
Happiness slipped away. He could feel the joy peeling loose like a layer torn from his soul. Invisible skin ripped away, taking with it every thread of hope he once knew. He struggled to pull in a breath. Heat raked through him. Waves of nausea surged like a churning sea. Tremors rattled in the space between muscle and bone.
The torrent of despair lasted for hours, or perhaps days. He couldn’t be sure. The only thing he knew anymore was life no longer had meaning. Curled into a lifeless ball was all the energy he had anymore.
He opened his eyes and sat up at some point. The sight of cardboard only added to the weight in his heart. He put out a hand to steady himself and paused. The tattered fabric at his wrist was not the shirt he put on that morning. He glanced down. Disheveled clothing hung from him.
Why am I wearing stained sweatpants?
He pressed a hand to his chest, struggling to care. A sliver of his mind recognized things were not right. That he needed to get out of this cardboard box. If only his thoughts were not so disconnected. He tried to run a hand through his hair but it got stuck in the snarls.
Michael pulled back. As he came to a stand, he saw streetlamps and parked cars. Was he back home? He squinted against the glaring sunlight. Nothing looked familiar. He glanced up and down the street without finding a single recognizable store sign or entryway.
“Where am I?”
A woman, thoroughly engrossed with her phone, came strutting past. As she neared, the faint impression of glass and gold bars echoed behind Michael’s eyes. He sucked in a breath. The image faded somewhat as she walked away. Michael’s breath came in choppy gasps. Another man approached, scrolling on his tablet, oblivious to the cardboard box nestled against the brick wall. He came within arm’s reach as glass and gold filled Michael’s mind anew.
A wheezing moan escaped his lips. The Guardian’s charge of obtaining a passenger rolled back and forth in Michael’s brain. He pressed both hands to the sides of his head. Could he do what his soul begged him to do?
He climbed out of the box, wondering what happened to his backpack. It had to be around here somewhere. He checked all around the box, then picked a direction at random to search the street.
Yank! His right foot held fast to the ground. He tugged and heaved but could not get his legs to keep walking. A step back afforded him a release, so he began walking in another direction. Yank! Heat squeezed along his throat. He hurried in another direction only to have his feet halt their progress once he got ten feet beyond the box.
Icy prickles climbed up his neck. He glanced at the cardboard box. The veil of glass and gold lingered behind his eyes.
He glanced up and rubbed a hand along his chilled neck. “There’s only one way out.”
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