The Blackout on the Stairs

It was a Thursday in August, in the middle of a heat wave. At eight o'clock at night, I was walking home from work, and I was thinking about only one thing: a cold shower. I live on the fourth floor of a ten-story building, so I always take the elevator.

I was waiting for the elevator when the lights went out. The whole building was dark, and the elevator stopped somewhere above us. Next to me stood Doña Eugenia from the ninth floor, with three heavy bags of groceries. "Nine floors," she said quietly.

I couldn't leave her there, so I picked up two bags, and we started to climb. The stairs were dark and hot. I was using my phone as a flashlight.

On the second floor, a teenage boy was sitting on the stairs because his apartment was too hot. He took the third bag without a word. On the third floor, a woman was lighting candles in her doorway, and she gave us one. On the fourth floor, my floor, I didn't stop.

On the sixth floor, Doña Eugenia needed a rest. She sat down on a step while a man from 6C brought her a glass of water. She looked at the boy. "You're Ramiro's grandson, aren't you? I taught your grandfather to play the guitar in 1975." The boy laughed, and suddenly everybody was asking her questions.

We reached the ninth floor at a quarter to nine. In the elevator, we never talked. Now we were telling stories and laughing in the dark. Doña Eugenia sat down on the top step, and we all sat around her.

At half past nine, the lights came back. Below us, the elevator made its little ding. Nobody moved. The candle was still burning on the step. The boy was playing an invisible guitar. Doña Eugenia was telling us about the day the building got its first elevator. My cold shower could wait.