I Rode in an Elevator With George Clooney
It was spectacularly awkward
It’s fair to say that I have a very soft spot in my heart for George Clooney. He’s stunningly handsome, he’s incredibly talented, and he’s also just a nice guy. I know this because I rode in an elevator with George Clooney, and in spite of my inability to function during the seemingly endless ride to his stop, he was very kind.
Many years ago, I worked as a managing concierge for a fancy hotel on the Gold Coast of Chicago. We had celebrity guests on a weekly basis, most of whom were fine, some of whom were awful (I see you, Bill Maher, you non-tipping screaming baby). George Clooney was one of the good ones.
Every month, hotel management was required to attend a meeting in the general manager’s office on the ninth floor. We were not allowed to use the guest elevator, which meant schlepping all the way around through the kitchen to the service elevator. Normally, I did that.
On this day, however, I was running a bit late, so I decided to use the guest elevator a few feet from my concierge stand. I pushed the call button and began sorting the files or folders or whatever I had in my hands. The elevator arrived, I stepped in, still focused on the paperwork I was carrying, and pushed “9.” At which point I realized someone else was in the elevator. I turned, my best concierge smile alighting my face, to discover I was standing next to George Clooney.
He smiled at me. My brain exploded. Here I was, in my matching burgundy polyester blouse and skirt festooned with paisley, low-heeled black pumps, and my “Hello I’m Erin Managing Concierge” nametag pinned to my chest. Standing two feet away from my secret husband.
The awkwardness was tangible. Not his, mine. I knew if I spoke, I would say something like “I love you so much you’re so handsome you smell good can I give you a smooch” and lose my job. So I just stood there, staring at the elevator buttons with every ounce of energy in my body.
The elevator reached the seventh floor, the floor where George Clooney was staying. The doors opened, and he stepped out. He turned. He grinned.
“Erin, you have a great day!”
The doors closed, and I proceeded to gently slam my head against the elevator wall. When I got out on the ninth floor and walked into the manager’s meeting, the GM looked at me and said “What the hell happened to your forehead?”
Luckily the meeting ran long, so by the time I returned to my concierge stand, the red mark on my forehead had almost disappeared. I didn’t see George again after the Elevator Incident, as it became known among my staff. Which is probably for the best.
