Well, I posted a rumination about the higher meaning of my writing, went down to the first floor to get the mail, and promptly got stuck in the elevator coming back up to the third floor. A big bump, a smaller bump, and it stopped dead between the floors. I pressed the emergency phone button on the elevator command panel [it worked!], reported the problem ["Help is one the way," the lady said], and waited. While I waited, I learned that contrary to every movie I have ever seen, you cannot pry the door open from the inside. Also, though there is what appears to be a trap door in the ceiling, I am way too short to reach it. After fifteen minutes, during which I called Susie to let her know where I was [good old reliable cell phone], the elevator started up, stopped at the second floor, and the door opened. I jumped out. The elevator door closed and the entire elevator system went dead. Rather like being swallowed by a big fish that decides I am not tasty and egests me. I think now I know how Jonah may have felt.
For what it is worth, the elevator inspector in this part of North Carolina is named Cherry Berry, according to the inspection sticker in the elevator -- not a name to inspire confidence. It could as well be a new Ben and Jerry flavor.