[ WP ] A hidden elevator is found behind a fake wall in a basement .

An estate sale's a hell of a thing, cleaning out someone else's garbage and wondering, the whole time, whether any of it's worth a damn -- to them or to you. All a matter of preference, I guess, but this place, far as I could tell, did n't have a single thing worth preferring. 
 
 Down in this fella's basement, ran into a stubborn old sheet of plywood stuck against the wall. `` Nothing left behind,'' the client's worksheet had said, but this goddamned board would n't budge. Last bit of junk always ended up a pain in the ass. 
 
 Why could n't it have been a Rolex. Or a rare painting. Who am I kidding, though? God knows a dope like me would n't know good art if I painted the damned thing myself. Art curator could send me a letter, proclaiming perfection, and I'd still probably junk it. 
 
 Had to go out to my truck and grab a crowbar to pry that wood board from the wall. Damn near bent the thing on my first tug, though. `` Determined son-of-a-bitch,'' I said, my lips pursed as I pried at it again. `` For the love of Christ,'' I yelled out, `` get off the fucking wall!'' 
 
 I guess that final pull was a real good one, because just then, as I wailed out curses that would've made my daddy proud, the wood flung free and -- the lucky guy I am -- hit me smack dab in the forehead. I laid there, half-conscious, whispering angry little things to myself. 
 
 Fucking estate sales. A Rolex. Just once, a Rolex, please, you sadistic gods of estate sales, just once give me that watch. Even if it's one of the cheaper ones, a used one, silver even, I'll never ask for another thing again. 
 
 I noticed the crowbar next to me, lying there, bent right down the middle. Never seen wood do a thing like that. Matter of fact, I do n't even remember pulling the board free. I guess a blow to the head'll do that to you. 
 
 As I got up, right where the board used to be, I saw what looked like an elevator: two chrome doors, cut right down the middle, with a set of buttons on the side. 
 
 Went up and tired the buttons. Nothing. No lights, no click, no ching. Weird. Looked like it might be some visual art, something you'd see at one of those contemporary art museums. You know, the ones with the upside down toilets and stuff. Maybe, I thought, this was like that. 
 
 Thing is, behind those doors, through that little crack right down their center, I could see the slightest bit of light. Real feint. You could easily miss it. For a second, I thought that maybe it was coming from the outside, but then I remembered that I was in the basement. What a dope I was. Blow to the head'll do that to you. 
 
 If that stupid crowbar had n't bent so far, I'd use it to pry those doors open. Who knows, though. Maybe it would. I walked over and examined the thing. It looked like a crooked spoon at this point. There was no way I could get enough leverage with it to open the doors -- especially not these ones, heavy as they looked. 
 
 `` Ding!'' 
 
 The fucking shit? 
 
 Behind me, just like that, with a ding, the doors opened. It was fully functional -- had lights and everything. At this point, I was thinking, `` you know what, keep the damned Rolex.'' Too weird for me. 
 
 But the thing is, it's a lot easier to say'no' to another roll at the craps table when you're back home sitting on the couch; when you're in Vegas, though, temptation, more often than not, says, `` c'mon, lucky number seven!'' That's why, God help me, I stayed the hell away from Vegas. 
 
 I found myself in a remarkably similar situation, though. And while my gut said, `` walk away,'' the gambler in me rolled the dice and walked inside. 
 
 It was pretty nice in there -- swanky, even. Had these little designs, looked Greek, running along the edges of the mirrors. Red carpet, too. 
 
 There were only two buttons: `` UP and DOWN.'' And I figured since I'd already seen upstairs, why not take a look down below. 
 
 `` Oh... well... fuck it!'' I said as I pressed the down button. 
 
 I started smiling nervously. Almost a laugh, really -- the kind a meth head gets as he waits his turn, watching as his buddy lights up and gets off. A `` hand-it-over'' smile. 
 
 Wait a minute... *What the fuck was I doing? * 
 
 The doors closed and I felt the elevator jerk. `` Ohhh!'' I screamed out, looking around for someone to share the fear with, but finding only my reflection in the mirror, terrified and smiling like a meth head. 
 
 
 EDIT: Making some coffee. I'll work on it some more in a few. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

