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Yesterday, my wife and I were leaving the Helmsley Park Lane hotel.

I had judged a boxing match the night before in Madison Square Garden and I got in late. i didn’t get much sleep but was excited about Sunday because we were going to the Hell’s Kitchen Food Festival and then to the Broadway show about Elvis, called the Million Dollar Quartet.

Then we got stuck in an elevator with five other people. A small elevator. One woman was 83 years old and another woman, probably barely 30, really struggled with claustrophobia. I was the only guy.

At first the hotel didn’t quite have a sense of urgency (at least in their voices) when they spoke to us through the speaker. I became the spokesperson and adopted that calm but assertively angry tone when i talked to the hotel personnel.

I was kind of proud to be honest because I felt a change in their attitude when I bassed up my voice and told them that I was unhappy with their level of energy around the issue. After a little while they began to fawn over us as I mentioned our level of displeasure with the situation.

Did I mention our room was $340 and every three steps i took in the place I had to tip someone?

We got out after 45 minutes and the hotel apologized profusely. i mentioned that my car was now over 24 hours in the parking lot at $51 a day and I didn’t want to be charged for a second day because of the elevator mishap. A nice gentleman in a suit walked me to the parking garage and promptly too care of the matter and paid the $51 for the previous day.


I felt good, like I didn’t over react or make a situation worse.

Then the parking guy pulled my car around. The driver seat was broken in the extreme forward position. I’m over six feet tall. The parking guy didn’t care. He shrugged and walked away.

I lost it.


This machine being an elevator...

Loud F-bombs.


Yeah, growls.

More F-bombs.

The gentleman who walked me out to the lot was now with another man. They both had walky-talkies. It dawned on me that they were security and they were looking at me. They didn’t say anything but they stayed close.

I walked to 57th St.

More F-bombs.

More growls.

The parking lot guy made himself scarce.

I tugged on the seat. My wife played with the electric button. I tugged. I started and restarted the car. Eventually the seat moved.

My neck hurt from yelling. My head pounded with my pulse.

My wife was frightened. I had a tough time settling down.

What happened? Was it fatigue? Was it the elevator? Was it that the car in the shop four times in the last 2 weeks before this trip? Was it the little parking lot guy who acted indifferent?

Was it something else?

Was it the sense that the hotel owed me? That I could be indignant? Was I getting off, just a little bit, on scaring people with my anger?

I have to admit getting that angry brings with it a bit of a rush. People scatter. People look worried. Something was running through my veins.

I’m not happy with myself. I hate scaring my wife. I still feel the effects of it this morning. I’m a bit ashamed.

Honestly though, there’s small part of me that kind of got off a bit on it. Not a lot. But it’s there. I’m not comfortable with that feeling. I don’t completely understand it but I can see why some people get angry often. There is sense of power that comes with it.

I don’t get it. I didn’t like it.

Actually, I didn’t like all of it.