Two Hours of Fame

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Andy Warhol and I are stuck in the elevator. The lights have gone out and now there's only the faint glow of the buttons to help me make out his face. He stands a few feet away from me; he looks as if he's about to scream.

At first, he doesn't want to talk - perhaps he thinks the lights will come back soon and we'll continue our rise to the top of the Empire States. We'll never have to get to know each other. Then he begins to humm to himself, softly under his breath, what appears to be the midnight tune of an elevator song.

'I can't remember if we are too far from the ground,' I say. I'm the king of breaking silences with pointless comments.

'Why don't you open the doors and peer down the elevator shaft?' Andy suggests unhelpfully.

'Didn't you once make a film about this building?' I ask.

'Yes, when it was one of the world's tallest buildings.'

'Maybe it still is?'

'I doubt it.'

The next two hours drag by and I fail to ask Andy anything remotely interesting.