Auditioning IS dangerous!

Had an audition on the 22nd floor of the Hancock Building today and got stuck in the elevator for 20 minutes afterward.

I remained pretty calm in the beginning. In fact, swear to God, after it sunk in that I was indeed stuck, I thought, "I wonder if Keanu Reeves is gonna come save me?" (He is so HOT! But I digress.) I took a deep breath, focused, and tried to think through exactly how I could alert someone to my situation. I lit up the buttons for every floor, pounded on the door, pushed the alarm bell about 10,000 times, yelled "Can anybody hear me?" until I was hoarse. When all these attempts failed, I sent Chris a bizarre text instructing him to call The Cheesecake Factory (of COURSE this was the first nearby business that popped into my mind) and inform them that his freaked out wife was being held captive by malfunctioning elevator parts. As my calmness began to evaporate, I even jumped up and down a couple of times before deciding that probably wasn't such a good idea. But I didn't truly start to panic until I pressed a big, silver button labeled PUSH TO TALK that sat on top of what looked to be some kind of speaker. I expected to hear a live person who would listen to my predicament and then talk me down while assuring me that help was on the way. Instead, I was greeted by loud static and a robotic voice repeating "Emergency in elevator B" over and over and over and over again. It. Would. Not. Stop. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I kept shrieking, "Hello? Is anybody there?" into the speaker, hoping against hope that someone with an actual pulse would come on the line so I could tell them to kick the robot guy's ASS.

Finally, after 15 minutes and zero progress as far as I could tell, I gave serious consideration to the only option I had not tried: the red emergency button. It had a little fire hat icon and was labeled "Fire emergency only. Delivered to lobby." I hesitated so long before pressing it because a) it seemed like a last-resort button, and I kept having visions of the entire Chicago Fire Department being summoned to 875 N. Michigan Ave. and then calling the police to arrest me for claiming a false emergency; and b) I had no idea how high up I was stuck, and the words "delivered to lobby" terrified me. What did that mean, anyway? Was the elevator suddenly going to plummet several floors at the speed of light? And if so, could my heart and bladder take that?

Despite my reservations, by this point I was getting desperate. So I took a deep breath, braced myself, and pushed the button. Annnnnddd...nothing. Not a thing. Absolutely. Nothing. HAPPENED. I started beating the hell out of the button, thinking maybe it was just stuck. Once reality set in, I sat on the floor and had myself a good cry.

Just about then, of course, the elevator started to move. It came to a stop approximately 6 seconds later, the doors opened easily, and ta da! I was in the lobby, safe and sound. And who, you might ask, was there to greet me? The fire department? Nope. Police? Nope. Building staff? Nope. Concerned citizen? Nope. ANYONE? No. No one waiting, no one around, not a soul. I even headed toward the security desk to let them know what had happened, but no one was there either. I suspect they were all huddled in a little room somewhere, taking turns talking into a microphone like a robot and laughing their heads off. Shaken and weepy, I noticed the door for The Cheesecake Factory was directly on my left. One slice of Oreo cheesecake later, I was feeling a bit better.

Still. Not one of my better afternoons. All I know is this: I totally better get a callback.