A Detective Paco Rerun - The Ups and Downs of Michael Moore

There was a steady drizzle outside, and drops of water made their halting way down the window, like spermatozoa looking for the prize in life’s most interesting zero sum game, when Sheila walked into the office. She was wearing an expression of mystery when she stopped in front of my desk.

“You’ve got a client outside, wants to see you something awful.”

“Who is it?”

“Michael Moore.”

I was intrigued. Why would Jabba the Hut’s ugly brother come to see me?

“Send him in.”

“He can’t come in. He’s stuck in the elevator.”

“Which floor?”

Sheila gave me that sly, sidewise smile; it was the face that launched a thousand furtive Binaca blasts by an equal number of would-be suitors. “All of them.”

“Listen, baby, I’m going to wind up using more than my allotted comment characters if this keeps up much longer. Spill.”

“He wedged himself in the elevator so tightly he can’t get out, and his blubber is pushing against all the buttons, so he just keeps going up and down, up and down.”

I lit a coffin nail and walked with Sheila out to the lobby. At that moment, the elevator door opened. A whiny voice filled the air.

“Oh, so there you are, Detective Paco! Listen, I’ve got a case for you. According to my calculations . . .”

Shhhhoooop

The doors closed and Moore was gone, like a fat memo down a vacuum tube.

“How long has this been going on?”

“About 10 minutes. Took him a long time to say what was on his mind.”

A few minutes later he was back. “According to my calculations, the Democrats received 100% of the vote, yet Republicans ‘won’ some of the elections. This proves . . .”

Shhhoooop

Moore had begun his downward journey again.

Sheila cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. “So what do we do? Call the fire department, or just stand here and poke him with sticks whenever the door opens?” That’s my girl: always considering the options.

I was working on my second cigarette when Moore made his regularly-scheduled appearance.

“Can’t you get me out of here? It’s hot and I’m getting hungry.”

“What do I look like, a piano mover? I’ll call the fire department.”

I went back to the office, picked up the phone - and heard what sounded like a distant car crash.

A few minutes later, Sam the janitor came running in.

“Mr. Paco! I just saw Michael Moore climbing out of the elevator in the basement!”

“What’s so remarkable about that, Sam?”

“Why, that elevator doesn’t go to the basement!”

Sheila came in laughing. “It’s my fault. He was hungry and I gave him half my ham sandwich. I guess that made him equal to just over the ten-person maximum that Otis allows.”