Being in Commercial Art was one of the more interesting parts of my college years. We were basically a collection of the best artists cobbled together from that year’s students, and somehow I ended up being one of the lucky ones who got in. My artist friend Sylvain didn’t make it, so he decided to join the army. I never saw him again after that. Looking back, maybe I wasn’t quite as lucky as I thought.
Every class required me to buy art supplies, which meant regular trips to the little art store inside the school. Calling it a store might be generous. It was about the size of a closet and was known as the Cabana. I eventually learned that a few of the teachers had a financial interest in the place, so it was definitely in their best interest that we students keep buying our supplies there. I don’t think that arrangement would fly today.
I would often see this tiny, almost fragile-looking punk girl around school. She dressed in punk clothes, usually had that shy little smile on her face, and was so quiet you barely noticed her until you did. She seemed genuinely happy, and although I didn’t really know her, when you spend enough time in the same place, you start recognizing the people you see every day. She definitely stood out from the crowd.
Back then, the Commercial Art program was off campus in a private building, with our classes spread between the seventh and ninth floors. We used the elevator constantly, so riding it was second nature. You got in, pushed a button, waited a few seconds and got out. Pretty boring stuff, really.
The little punk girl walked into the elevator, smiling as usual. She smiled at me and I smiled back. Punk music was already starting to fade, although things always seemed to take a little longer to reach North America. New Wave was already making noise. Then, just as the elevator doors were about to close, two more punks jumped in.
These guys looked like they had walked straight out of a punk club. Torn T-shirts, chains, painted Doc Martens and that unmistakable look of people who weren’t particularly interested in fitting in. They were tall and intimidating, and I assumed they were friends of the girl because she seemed completely comfortable with them. I had never seen either of them before, which was unusual because we pretty much knew everyone around the program. I figured they must have been from somewhere else.
The girl pressed the button for the ninth floor, the doors closed and we started going up. Everything was perfectly normal until there was a big thump and the elevator suddenly stopped.
The three of them looked at each other, and then they started kicking the crap out of the walls with their Doc Martens. Not little kicks either. They were really going at it, pounding those elevator walls over and over. I remained calm and watched the whole thing, wondering if this was some kind of punk troubleshooting technique I had never heard about. What amazed me most was this tiny, almost fragile-looking girl. She was quiet and always smiling, yet here she was kicking the elevator like it had personally offended her.
And I have to admit, watching them, there was a tiny urge in me to join in and kick the crap out of that elevator too. Maybe there was a little punk in me after all.
Then another thought occurred to me. Maybe they weren’t mad at the elevator. Maybe they were mad at the Muzak.
Think about it. What could be more offensive to three punks than being trapped inside a metal box listening to some bland instrumental version of a perfectly good song? Maybe they weren’t trying to get the elevator moving at all. Maybe they were trying to beat the crap out of the music.
Of course, I have no idea if that was what was going through their heads. But it makes a certain amount of punk sense. It also got me wondering if they make Muzak versions of punk songs today. Imagine being trapped in an elevator listening to a perfectly respectable instrumental version of “Blitzkrieg Bop.” Hey! Ho! Let’s go… to the ninth floor.
After what seemed like quite a while, the elevator suddenly started working again. Up we went, and just like that, the kicking stopped. Nobody said a word. Apparently, whatever their punk-rock elevator repair technique was, it had done the job.
When the doors opened on the ninth floor, the three of them stepped out smiling and waved goodbye to me as if absolutely nothing had happened. Then they disappeared down the hallway.
I never saw those two guys again, and I don’t think I ever found out who they were. But all these years later, whenever I get into an elevator, I sometimes think about those three and that bizarre little ride to the ninth floor. I still don’t know if kicking the walls actually fixed anything, but it certainly seemed to work.
Maybe the little punk in me is still in there somewhere, waiting for the right elevator. At least I haven’t kicked one yet.
Tony Medeiros is a Montreal-based writer, publisher, and creator with more than two decades of experience telling stories about food, restaurants, pop culture, entertainment, books, comics, music, history, and the things that make life interesting. He is the creator and publisher of Sandbox World, MTL Resto Rap, and Grubbits. Through his writing and publishing, Tony continues to explore new ideas, share stories, and connect readers with the subjects he finds fascinating.