Elevators, Banana Seats, and the Dark Corners of My Mind

Let me take you back to a time when the world felt bigger, yet somehow safer. The 1960's when freedom came on two wheels and our biggest worries were which hill to race down next. Back then, I rode a stingray bicycle with a banana seat—bright yellow with chrome handlebars curved just right. That bike was more than just a way to get around—it was my ticket to adventure, my getaway vehicle, and my trusty steed for the paper route that wove through the maze of apartment buildings on the hill.

The paper route wasn’t just a job; it was a daily expedition. The apartments sat on a somewhat steep incline, and after I finished tossing the morning news onto welcome mats, we’d race—full tilt—down those hills. No helmets, no sense of mortality, just wind in our faces and laughter bouncing off the pavement. We'd slam the brakes and skid sideways in dramatic, tire-burning arcs, leaving black trails like war paint on the asphalt. It was chaos, it was stupid, it was glorious.

The elevators in those apartments were their own little amusement parks. We’d hop in and bounce up and down, shifting our weight from side to side to make the whole thing sway. There was something thrilling about pretending we could tip it over—like we were testing the limits of safety just to see if we could. Sometimes we’d yank the emergency stop button halfway up so it would be "conveniently" waiting for us later. Sure, people were annoyed, but we thought we were geniuses.

We scared each other for sport—hiding behind corners, yelling at just the right moment, or letting the elevator doors close just as someone was running up. It was all part of the game.

Then there was that day. My friend—let’s just call him Tommy—lived in the apartment above mine. We were tight. But also, like most kids, we were unpredictable. One afternoon, the elevator doors opened and there was Tommy… squatting in the corner, pants around his ankles, doing something you’d never expect to see in an elevator. Yep—he was taking a crap. Right there. In the corner.

I blinked. He grinned. And I laughed—hard. We all did. Not because it was sanitary (it definitely wasn’t), but because it was absurd. Nobody does that. Nobody sane, anyway. It was the kind of thing that lives forever in your brain as the gold standard of juvenile insanity.

We were idiots, sure. But we were free. And weirdly, in those moments—those dumb, hilarious, reckless moments—we were also exploring who we were. We didn’t know it then, but those elevators, those hills, and even that poor corner of the lift... they were all part of discovering the darker, sillier, truer sides of ourselves.

Now, as I dive into the deeper recesses of my mind—searching for truth through memories and introspection—I sometimes find myself right back there. With banana seats, newspaper bags, and a friend doing the unthinkable just to make us laugh.

Life was messy. And unforgettable.

And maybe… that’s the point.