An elevating tale

A reader who asks not to be identified sent me a funny anecdote after a recent column in which a reader mentioned her "elevator" ride to the top of the St. Louis Arch. It's not strictly an elevator, this second reader says, since going up in an arch isn't a vertical ride. True. He continues:

"Which brings me to the story of my family's visit years ago when our children were still kids. My wife is claustrophobic. I knew that, but didn't realize the extent of her claustrophobia until that day. I purchased five tickets for the ride without consulting her, then, unwisely, insisted we had paid for the ride and had to ride to the top.

"So she, the three kids and I squeezed into this tiny little cage. In order to stay horizontal as the shaft curved, the cage ratcheted every few seconds. My wife hung on for dear life. Unfortunately, I was on one side of her, and the only thing she had to hang onto on that side was my thigh. Every time the cage ratcheted to stay level, she squeezed my thigh. Forty years later, I still have bruises on that thigh.

"But that's not the end of the story. When we got to the top, she announced that there was no way she would get back in that contraption to ride back down. So I convinced a security guard that she needed to take the steps down. He opened a door and showed us the steps."

Let me interrupt to note that the Arch is 630 feet tall at its highest point.

"She took one look at the steps, and decided that her acrophobia was worse than her claustrophobia, so she would ride back down.

"I have been married for a half century, and would like to continue to be. So, if you can print this story anonymously, I would really appreciate it. Otherwise, I hope you have a spare bedroom, because I am going to need a place to sleep."

Since I don't have a spare bedroom, you can see why I'm leaving him anonymous.