|
|||||
Brand Names (Vol. 4, No. 27) I had just arrived back at my hotel after a long day. Eager to retreat to my room for a little quiet time before my meeting that evening, I had been frustrated when the light on my door’s passcard reader blinked red. I tried it again. Red. Pulled out the extra card I’d been issued. Pass. Red. Pass. Red. This was the second time in as many days that the hotel’s computer had timed my passcards out. Nice security feature that keeps people from hanging on to the cards and going back to rummage through the next guest’s luggage. But a hassle for someone staying for three straight days. I lugged my combination briefcase and computer bag back to the elevator. As the door opened, I saw a familiar face. A big smile showing a few crooked teeth greeted me. Same face that greeted me and opened the outside door last night about 11 p.m. when I was stuck out in the parking lot. “Did ya finally get in to your room last night?” he asked. I assured him I did, then began the elevator routine. Do you know it? Glance up at the floor indicator to see where we were in our journey. Shift to the control panel to make sure the correct destination floor has been selected. Move to the instructions provided for firemen. Check out the location of the emergency phone. “Where ya headed now?” he queried. Usually the elevator routine suppresses conversations between passengers. My eyes left the door that hid the phone and traveled upward to the plate that announces the load capacity and the manufacturer of the elevator. I was about to answer with a generic and a less than truthful, “Out.” But something I saw on that name plate stopped me short. “Oh, down to the desk. My passcard’s not working again.” About that time the door opened and my vertical co-traveler moved out in front of me and motioned me to follow him. Uncertain about his intentions, I lagged back a little bit. When he got to the front desk, I saw him talk in earnest to the clerk, explaining my plight. An instant later, I was on my way with newly programmed passcards, effusive apologies, and offers of a free membership in a hotel-sponsored travel program. Turns out my new-found friend was the construction manager for the hotel chain. And I was on the guest list – and that brought certain amenities. When I re-entered the elevator, I punched the button for my floor and leaned back against the wall. Looking immediately to the name plate, I remembered what had caught my attention before and prompted my forthrightness. I was used to seeing “ The name “Schindler” had interrupted my routine. I had realized that I was in a unique place. I was on “Schindler’s Lift.” As clever as I thought my play on words was, I still could not escape the significance of the history surrounding the object of my pun. Many a Nazi officer paused – at least momentarily – when they saw the name “Schindler” atop a list of names. The Jews on Schindler’s list regained their lives during that pause. Their certain path to a concentration camp and perhaps Hitler’s gas chamber was rerouted. There is something in a name. As I stepped off that elevator and into the hall, I couldn’t help but think about another list. It’s the list of God’s children. It’s a list I want to be on. My name on the list means something. I pulled my passcard out when I reached my door. Pass. Green light. I’m safe inside. I’m relieved to be on the list.
Shine On!
copyright 2004 Joe L. Cope
|
|||||
