Matt of All Trades blog, like the title suggests, is by a Vermont author and offers offbeat musings on pop culture, media, journalism, humor, weirdness, stupid people, smart people, my life as a journalist, landscaper, photographer, married gay man, dog lover and weather geek and more. It's run by me, Matt Sutkoski, a native Vermonter living in St. Albans, Vt.
Tractor trailer trucks park beneath a bridge long I-696 in Detroit to
prevent a suicidal man from getting hurt if he jumped off the bridge.
A guy in Detroit this week was going to commit suicide by jumping off a bridge and onto busy I-696.
Police were called to try to negotiate with the guy to make him change his mind. That part of the story is unfortunately common. Happens all the time.
But the part of this story I - and pretty much the rest of social media and the public in general likes - is another way police and semi-truck drivers cooperated to prevent the suicide.
The cops closed the highway to traffic, except for 13 semi-truck drivers, who they let through. The catch was, the 13 truck drivers would park cheek-by-jowl under the bridge. If the guy did jump, he'd land on the roof of one of the trucks, which were only a few feet below the bridge. If the guy jumped, he probably wouldn't have even gotten hurt.
After a few hours, the suicidal guy agreed to give up and go to the hospital for an evaluation.
A woman accidentally dropped her hat from an upper floor of
a Houston parking garage during a parade to celebrate the
Houston Astros win in the World Series. But she got her hat back.
People in Houston, Texas were justifiably thrilled and happy that the Houston Astros won the World Series last week.
During the inevitable, huge parade to celebrate, lots of people on several floors of a large parking garage viewed the parade from above.
A woman near the top floor - eight stories up - accidentally dropped her hat. Gone forever as it headed toward the street far below, right?
Nope. People cooperated nicely to get the hat back to the lady in the best possible way. It's a small victory of decency in a world where decency seems out of fashion. So I'm totally happy with this.
"Since publication the News-Sentinel has done additional investigation in an attempt to independently verify Schmitt-Matzen's acount. This has proven unsuccessful. Although facts about his background have checked out, his story of bringing a gift to a dying child remains unverified. The News-Sentinel cannot establish that Schmitt-Matzens' account is inaccurate, but more importantly, ongoing reporting cannot establish that it is accurate."
If there are further updates, I'll either update or delete the post, whichever is most appropriate.
PREVIOUS DISCUSSION:
You know damn well there's a Kleenex warning with this story.
The viral story going around now is about the hospitalized child in Tennessee dying in Santa's arms.
The whole thing is hopelessly sad and tragic, obviously, save for one bright spot. The man who was playing Santa, Eric Schmitt-Matzen, is an absolutely beautiful human being.
When not Santa, the white-bearded, six foot one, 310 pound man is president of a company called Packing Seals & Engineering in Tennessee.
I'm sure he's a great mechanical engineer and CEO, but Schmitt-Matzen gave us all a welcome dose of humanity in a world that seems sorely lacking in that department.
There's a heartrending video interview with Schmitt-Matzen at the bottom of this post, but if it is too much to watch, what follows is a narrative of this simultaneously terrible and beautiful story.
It was a nurse from the hospital Schmitt-Matzen knew. She told him to come right away for a sick five year old boy. The nurse told him don't even change into your whole Santa Clause outfit. There wasn't time.
"Schmitt-Matzen got to the hospital in 15 minutes. He met the lad's mother and several family members. 'She'd bought at toy from (the TV show) PAW Patrol and wanted me to give it to him,' he said, voice growing husky. 'I sized up the situation and told everyone, If you think you're going to lse it, please leave the rom. If I see you crying, I'll break down and can't do my job.'"
Venable wrote that nobody entered the room with Santa, but watched, sobbing, through a hallway window in the hospital's ICU.
Schmitt-Matzen continued, as relayed by Venable:
"'When I walked in, he was laying there, so weak it looked like he was ready to fall asleep. I sat down on his bed and asked, 'Say, what's this I hear about you're gonna miss Christmas? There's no way you can miss Christmas! Why, you're my Number One Elf!' He looked up ad said, 'I am?' I said 'Sure!' I gave him the present. He was so weak he could barely open the wrapping paper. When he saw what was inside, he flashed a big smile and laid his head back down. 'They say I'm gonna die,' he told me. 'How can I tell when I get to where I'm going?' I said, 'Can you do me a big favor?' He said, 'Sure!' 'When you get there, you tell 'em you're Santa's Number One Elf, and I know theyll let you in.' He said, 'They will?' I said, 'Sure!' He kind of sat up and gave me a big hug and asked one more question: 'Santa, can you help me?' I wrapped my arms aroud him. Before I could say anything, he died right there. I let him stay, just kept hugging and holding on to him."
And so, Schmitt-Matzen, aka Santa, sent the boy on his next journey, whereever that might be.
The boys mother ran into the room, screaming, "No, No not yet!" Schmitt-Matzen handed the boy back to his mother and fled the hospital in tears.
He said he cried so hard driving home he could barely see the road. That's understandable.
What's also understandable is Schmitt-Matzen considered giving up his Santa gig after this. He just didn't have the heart to do it.
But he did one more gig, which was fortunate. Schmitt-Matzen said, "When I saw all those children laughing, it brought me back into the fold, it made me realize the role I have to play....For them and for me."
At 54 years old, I'm too old to believe in Santa. Or am I?
No, a fat, happy old man from the North Pole is not going to come down my chimney Christmas Eve and give me presents.
You can call people like Schmitt-Matzen what you want. Great human beings, Good Samaritans, or guardian angels.
Or you could call him Santa. This time of year, when I hear stories like this, I'm glad that Santa lives on, not in some hokey television commercial that demands that you Buy, Buy, Buy!, but in the quiet grace of Schmitt-Matzen, aka Santa.
It seems like there's so little of Schmitt-Matzen's type in the world today, in a time when people feel like they have "permission" to scream insults and threats at people they don't like.
I, like everybody else, shed a tear when I read about Schmitt Matzen and the dying boy. Not only for the context of the story, but because it makes me know there are still people like him out there.
Thanks, Santa.
Here's the video. (Warning, it's a real tear-jerker, but worth watching)
Watch the stirring video of it at the bottom of this post. If their performance of this song doesn't move you at least a little, nothing will
Among the broadway luminaries taking part were Lin-Manuel Miranda (from "Hamilton); Kristen Bell, Gloria Estefa, Whoopi Goldberg, Nathan Lane, Idina Mezel, Sarah Jessica Parker, Rosie Perez, Sara Bareilles, Wayne Brody, Rosie O'Donnell, Bernadette Peters, Carole King, Chita Rivera, Tommy Tune and Matthew Broderick.
Broadway for Orlando could not have chosen a better song for this effort, with the lyrics:
"What the world needs now is love, sweet love. It's the only thing that there's just too little of. What the world needs now is love, sweet love No, not just for some but for everyone."
As a gay man, I'm thrilled to live in a changed world in which most people accept us for who we are, that I was able to marry the love of my life, even though he's the same gender as me. Things are much better than they were even a decade ago, never mind 30, 40, 50 years ago.
My favorite aunt was Aunt Irene. She was smart and funny and cool, always tooling around in her Ford Mustangs.
Aunt Irene also drank herself to death. I know now she was a lesbian, and back in the day -1950s, 1960, 1970s - there was no way she could be who she was.
I have no proof of this, but I'm convinced the fact she couldn't openly live her life killed her. Hate, intolerance and ignorance is a terribly efficient killer.
Years later, people bravely started coming out as gay, and when most reasonable people discovered they knew gay people and those people were just fine, the anti-gay balloon began deflating
This paved the way for people like me. I don't have to be alone and hidden like Aunt Irene. I'm proud of my husband, and who I am. Jeff and I have built a sweet life together. You know, love, sweet love, as the song goes.
But the love, as Broadway for Orlando tells us, it is not just for some, but for everyone. Or should be anyway.
Broadway stars record "What The World Needs Now
Is Love" to benefit the Orlando LGBT community.
I know there's a lot of people like Aunt Irene. I mean still, to this day.
Anti-gay bigotry killed those 49 people in Orlando's Pulse nightclub. It also kills people quietly.
It's the so called Christian parents or churches or relatives who find out a kid is gay and rejects him or her.
Gay kids who come from highly rejecting families are 8.4 times as likely to attempt suicide as their gay peers who report no or low levels of family rejection, says the Trevor Project.
Then we have the small but odious band of people in the U.S. who call themselves Christian and regularly try to beat the gay community down.
There's also alleged Pastor Roger Jimenez, who wished the 53 people injured in the shooting at that gay nightclub would just die already because most of them were gay. (The owner of the building that leases space to Jimenez's "church" is so upset with the comments that they're kicking him and his church out.)
These are extreme examples, of course. But this kind of rhetoric is dangerous. Most people wouldn't act on these bigoted speeches, but a few wackos could.
I feel relatively safe being who I am, but not completely safe. I know there are hateful bigots that want me dead. Or to at least go away.
So yes, Broadway for Orlando is exactly right. What the world needs now is love, sweet love for everyone.
I'm also grateful Broadway for Orlando is continuing to publicize and push this so hard to raise money for The Center in Orlando. I noticed the Broadway luminaries got together again to perform "What the World Needs Now Is Love" on the Maya and Marty show on NBC last night.
Sirius XM Rado host Seth Rudetsky and his husband, producer James Wesley decided on Monday, June 13 to organize the benefit single,People magazine reports. By Wednesday, the recording was done.
"We started making calls, and suddenly we had tons of theater actors along with an orchestra and the services of a fully-staffed recording studio, all willing to donate their time and talent...... Our community of artists has banded together as we always to to show we can end this cycle of violence and intolerance. Love will prevail," Rudetsky said.
You can go to BroadwayRecords.com or iTunes to download Broadway for Orlando's "What the World Needs Now Is Love," for $1.99.
Even more importantly, when you see hate or hear hate speeech against the LGBT community or anyway, counteract it. Do something loving. Tell the haters why they're wrong. You might not change their minds, but you'll put them on notice.
Here's the spectacular video of Broadway for Orlando's "What the World Needs Now Is Love"
Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20, was one of the victims
of the massacre at the Pulse nightlcub in Orlando
last Sunday. Passengers aboard a JetBlue flight wonderfully
comforted his grandmother as she flew
to Orlando for the funeral.
Every time something like the massacre in Orlando happens - and it happens way too often, I and many others seek out examples of humanity's good side to help us get through the horror, and to recover our faith in people.
"When I was a boy and I wuld see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me. 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother's words and I am always conforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world."
On cue, the helpers materialized in droves in Orlando and around the world.
The first responders who saved lives. The people who lined up for hours under the hot Florida sun to give blood to save the wounded. The people who handed out umbrellas, water and granola bars to those people waiting in line.
Then there was the crew and passengers aboard a JetBlueflight to Orlando this week.
One of the youngest victims of the Pulse nightclub massacre was Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20. His grandmother, devastated, boarded a JetBlue flight to Orlando to go to her grandson's funeral.
The JetBlue crew knew why the grandmother was on that hour and half long flight to Orlando. That's because JetBlue offered free flights to Orlando for relatives heading there for funerals.
According to CNN,one of the flight attendants, Kelly Davis Karas, thought it would be nice to ask passengers if they wanted to sign a paper offering condolences for the grandmother on that flight as she and fellow flight attendant Melissa Sloop Winstead made their way up the aisle with the beverage cart.
Karas thought they'd just sign their names. But soon, there was a mad but quiet scramble to find more paper. Here's why, says CNN:
"Instead of signing their names and moving on, passengers were writing paragraphs - long notes of compassion, grief and strength. 'When we gathered them together to present them to her, we didn't have just a sheet of paper covered in names, which is what I had envisioned. Instead, we had page after page after page of long messages offering condolences, peace, love and support. There were even a couple of cash donations, and more than a few tears,' Karas wrote on her Facebook page."
When the plane landed, a couple of passengers asked for a moment of silence for Omar and the grandmother agreed to that.
When the moment of silence ended, people gathered their things to leave the plane.
However, everyone on board stopped and wished the grandmother well and offered condolences. Some people touched her hand, or hugged her, or cried with her. Not one person complained about the extra time it took getting off the plane because of this.
I confess I have shed a few tears over the Orlando massacre and all those victims. This story also made me shed tears, but happy ones, in gratification for the beautiful humanity on that JetBlue flight - that wonderful planeload of helpers.
Mourning doves have set up a nest with two eggs at the
base of the windshield of a Parma, Ohio police crusiers.
The nesting doves are enjoying full protection from
Parma police offices.
I love the population boom of birds I see bere in tbe northern climes this time of year.
Which is why I have to congratulate the Parma, Ohio, police department.
A pair of mourning doves decided to set up a nest at the base of a windshield on a backup cruiser parked in the department's lot.
Police could have shooed the doves away, destroyed the nest and moved on with protecting the citizens in the fine city of Parma.
But this was a backup cruiser and Parma police had all the tools they needed to protect and serve. They could live without the spare cruiser for awhile and make do with what they had.
Really. Why not protect and serve the doves?
While two eggs are awaiting hatching at the base of the windshield, Parma officers sealed off the parked cruiser with police tape and traffic construction barrels,says television station Fox 8 in Cleveland.
Who says police tape is only for crime scenes?
Police officers have set up an umbrella over the nest to keep it dry, left a container of water out for the birds to drink and have even dug up worms from a nearby muddy lawn to feed the mourniing doves.
"Our officers are human beings just like anyone else. We care for all lives human and animal," said Lt. Kevin Riley of the Parma Police Department. They want to make sure the doves and their young are well taken care of,according to Fox 8.
By the way, the Parma Police Department names the dove mom Gerty for some reason.
Works for me!
And congratulations to the soon-to-be mourning dove parents.
My dad, Red Sutkoski, in his tavern, Red's Place, shortly
before he retired in 1991. Red's Place
was a popular gathering spot in West Rutland,
Vermont for the four decades my father owned the place.
Photo by my brother in law, David Jenne.
My dad, Red Sutkoski passed away Saturday afternoon, January 23, 2016 at the age of 95.
He had a damn good run, that's for sure.
He wasn't well known outside of Vermont, but in a time when we can all be overwhelmed by the greed, crassness, ill will and anger out there, the whole world could learn from his grace, giving nature and gentle wit.
Dad was born in 1920 to Polish immigrants in what was then the busy marble quarrying town of West Rutland, Vermont.
Dad, known to everyone from Day One as Red for his red hair, lived a sweep of West Rutland's history:
He saw onstruction of the duplexes built for Vermont Marble Company workers, the Great Flood of 1927, the Great Depression, the labor riots among West Rutland quarry workers in the 1930s.
Red saw Prohibition,during which he good naturedly took note of who got busted for making what dad called "Screech," which was the shockingly abysmal home made booze people discreetly made during that time.
Along with most of West Rutland's young men, Red marched off to World War II. He came back, opened his restaurant and bar, and from that perch saw the town at first thrive with the marble quarries, then go into a near death spiral when the quarries closed and the jobs evaporated.
He watched West Rutland struggle back from those days, and had a hand in its slow rebirth, by encouraging its redevelopment while honoring the community's history.
Red was the unofficial Town Historian, as he was the go to person to ask whenever you wanted to know what happened in town anytime after 1920, the year he was born. His mind was sharp to the end.
He was much more than West Rutland's memory vault, and everybody in town knew it. His warmth, humor, compassion and friendship brought out the best in the town,. The best in its people. His family. Me.
My dad, Red Sutkoski outdoors in his younger days. He loved
being outside, especially if it was working on a project
to benefit those around him.
That restaurant and tavern Red owned for 40 years in the heart of West Rutland had the official name of Marble Valley Restaurant, but everybody just knew it as Red's Place.
Or maybe embrace it. With Red's laughter ringing out over the sound of either a Polish polka or Patsy Cline warbling from the juke box, the smoky Red's Place was the most welcoming and lively place in town.
There's even a song by the excellent Vermont bandStarline Rhythm Boys called Red's Place that is about my dad and his bar. It captures the vibe of the bar, and my dad just perfectly. (Watch the video of the Boys performing that song at the bottom of this blog post.)
Red's Place wasn't fancy, and neither was the clientele. Dad liked it that way. Sure, he embraced and befriended everyone, including the rich and powerful. As long as they didn't abuse people with their power and money, or victimized them with it.
Dad's soft spot, though, was for the underdog, which was why Red's Place was such a good fit for him, and such a good fit for West Rutland.
Red's Place was a second home to quarry workers, Polish immigrants, truck drivers, farmers, and other town residents who just wanted a friendly refuge for the evening.
Many of us Americans are perhaps inadvertently raised to celebrate the rich, the powerful, the flashy, the thrilling. And that's all OK, except when we do so at the expense of everyone else. Or worse, we ignore the underdogs as not important and not worth our time.
Dad knew everyone was important, and he showed it by being welcoming to everybody. As long as they weren't hurting anyone else.
Dad's example in his life and work showed me how to do the opposite of that. He taught me to seek out the people we're "supposed" to ignore and dismiss. The ones that have no power, who live quiet lives, who live humbly, through choice or circumstance.
For all that I'm a much richer, happier, well-rounded person. We should all live by dad's example. The world would be a much better place if we did.
Red Sutkoski as a young man reading the paper with a faithful
companion at his West Rutland, Vermont home. It was
a perfect combination for him. Red loved animals,
and he was always curious about what
was going on in the world around him.
That doesn't mean we should be somber sympathizers to those who aren't at the top of the heap. The only way dad's example worked, how his life worked, was through a sense of humor.
If there's not laughter, according to the Rules of Red, there's not much else to live for.
So Red loved telling stories of other's foibles, in a way that celebrates rather than ridicules our pratfall moments.
As mentioned, West Rutland had many Polish immigrants that came to work in the quarries during the later 19th century and early 20th century. Many people, including dad, regularly spoke Polish.
At Red's Place, you'd often hear people yell out "Nostrovia," the Eastern European equivalent to "Cheers!" when people share a toast.
At one point, a new guy started coming into Red's Place. He was worried about fitting in, and didn't speak much. He listened, trying to understand the vernacular.
This guy kept hearing everyone saying "Nostrovia!" and finally decided to make his move. He bought the man sitting next to him a beer, and chimed in with that golden cheer. The man clinked the bottle with his new buddies at the bar and shouted, "Nice driveway!"
The moment was so funny that dad immediately embraced the Nice Driveway guy as a good friend.
Dad loved telling the "Nice Driveway" story, such that I've taken it upon myself to spread the tale. Everyone knows that when they share a drink or a bottle with me, we'll clink our glasses and tell each other, "Nice driveway."
If that's not a good tribute to Red, I don't know what is.
God knows dad's sense of humor was gloriously goofy. One great example was a day a long time ago when he was walking along Marble Street in West Rutland.
A car with out of state plates pulled up along side him, its driver obviously lost and in need of directions. "How do you get to Tinmouth?," the woman in the passenger seat asked dad.
"My brother takes me,!" dad replied.
Of course, he said he was just kidding, and made sure the couple in the car got on the right road to Tinmouth.
Roads figure pretty prominently in my memory of dad.
When I was about six or seven years old, the state was building a four lane road in back of our house. The Brand New Route 4.
The way the road was built in back of our house, there was a two lane eastbound lane, situated at an elevation several feet above the parallel westbound lanes.
As they were building the road, dad and I would go up and explore the construction site. Often, he'd start singing, of all things, a bit of the Scottish song "The Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond."
The part he'd sing, was "You take the high road and I'll take the low road."
On the surface, his words could be taken as a simple commentary on the highway construction. But there was a deeper meaning. He was instructing me to take the high road in life, just as he did. I guess the best way we can remember Red and his life is to always take that high road. And I'm not talking about eastbound Route 4 here.
Red's M.O. was to take the high road quietly. He had a gorgeous habit of honoring history, and the people that came before him. In a remote corner of West Rutland, the Whipple Hollow Cemetery had become overgrown, broken down and all but forgotten by people in town.
So he took it upon himself to clear the broken trees and branches, rip out the weeds, replant grass and got some help fixing broken grave stones. This kind of stuff dad did is infectious.
As dad was at the Whipple Hollow Cemetery one day, Markowski Excavating was working on a nearby construction project. When they saw what dad was doing, they quickly went up to the cemetery with an excavator to clear rocks, stumps and debris away.
Dad never worried about controversial topics, especially when they involved love. When I came out as gay and introduced him to Jeff Modereger, the man I would marry, dad embraced Jeff like he would his own son.
Dad's biggest goal was that his three children, me, Lynn and Laurie, would be happy and well taken care of. Dad went out knowing that the husbands and partners of us three kids were making us all happy, and would take care of us beautifully once he was gone.
My dad and my father-in-law, Don Modereger, were both about 90 years old when Jeff and I married. Don had a lot in common with Red, especially in terms of their warmth, generosity, compassion and good humor.
Red and Don's only face to face meeting was at my wedding. (Don lived way out in South Dakota, and it was hard for both Red and Don to travel.)
Even so, Red and Don immediately became good friends. I can't help but think the two fathers are sharing a good laugh as I write this.
This month, dad's physical heart finally gave out, worn down by 95 years of work and family and joy and troubles and worry and friendship. But his metaphorical, spiritual and loving heart kept beating strong. It still is.
There's not going to be a wake or a funeral or anything like that, because Red said he didn't want such ceremonies. He never wanted people to make a fuss over him. Red told us that if anybody wanted to mark his passing, they should just do something kind for someone else.
To close out and keep celebrating Dad's life,the video of the Starline Rhythm Boys performing "Red's Place" is coming up.
When you watch it, grab a beer, and another one to share with a friend. Clink the two bottles together, tell each other "Nice driveway," laugh, and then say or do something good for anyone you see around you.
Red will see this, fetch another round for his friends in heaven, and the party will go on here and up there. Just as he wants it.
So dad, all I can say to you now is "Nice driveway."
The Hug Lady of Fort Hood, Elizabeth Laird, died Christmas Eve. She's estimated to have given out at least 500,000 hugs to deploying U.S soldiers.
Elizabeth Laird, 83, of Texas passed away on Christmas Eve.
You probably never heard of her, using just her real name. But she was famous, especially around Fort Hood Texas, as she was known as the "Hug Lady."
She made it her job to hang out at the local airport, giving each and every deploying soldier a hug as they departed, and then giving them another hug when they returned from their deployments.
Estimates are she gave at least 500,000 hugs.
"I mean, 1 O'clock in the morning, she was there, and she would say a prayer for the soldiers. She'd hug each one as they walked out the door. And then when you came home at 9 a.m. on a Sunday or whenever time you arrived, she was waiting for you when your plane flew in," Col. Christopher Garver told NPR.
Of course, sometimes a person Laird hugged would never come home.
"What people don't understand is, a hug from her might be the last body contact of affection someone could have experienced. I know it for a fact, because I know some of the people she hugged who came back home in a body bag," retired Command Sgt. Maj. William "Joe" Gainey told the Killeen (Texas) Daily Herald.
No doubt the community loved her. When she was sick, dying of breast cancer back in November, a GoFundMe pagewas set up to pay some of her medical expenses. The goal was to raise $10,000. But in short order, the GoFundMe effort collected close to $95,000.
There's talk of changing the name of the deployment center at Fort Hood after Laird. They're also discussing giving Laird a posthumousPresidential Metal of Freedom for her efforts.
I can't think of a person more deserving of getting that metal.
Funeral services for Laird are scheduled for today in Killeen, in a church that has the capacity to hold about 2,500 people. A big place, but I doubt there's enough room there for everyone who wants to pay respect.
If there's a heaven, I'm sure Laird has hugged everybody up there already.
Firefighters in Baytown, Texas finish mowing the lawn of a heart attack victim. Photo by Ashley Odom Chandler, via Facebook.
Firefighters in Baytown, Texas recently responded to the home of a 65 year old man who suffered a heart attack while mowing his lawn.
The paramedics treated him and rushed the man off to the hospital. So good! They did their job completely and professionally.
However, the firefighters believed they still had work to do at the scene of the emergency.
They returned, finished mowing the lawn, put the mower in the garage when they were done, locked the garage door and left a note tellling the man's wife to contact them if she needed them for anything elsesays ABC 13 in Houston.
Sadly, the 65-year old's heart attack was massive. Despite the firefighters' efforts and that of the doctors at the hospital, the guy died.
Still, I really have to give kudos to the Baytown Fire Department. Talk about being community minded! Not surprisingly, they are getting major praise from Baytown residents.
Cesar Larios becomes a human chair for Rita Young in a stuck elevator recently.
The elevator broke at the Grand Court Senior Living complex in Tampa. Larios was in the elevator on a moving job. Rita Young, 79, was in the elevator, too.
Problem is, Young can't stand up for any extended period of time. And there tends to be no chairs in elevators. Even stuck ones.
So Larios improvised. He got down on his hand and knees and told Young to sit on his back. He became the Human Chair.
"Bless his heart. 'I could hold you for a least up to an hour,' he said." in a report by CNN's Jeannie Moos.
The headline for this incident is fittingly odd for Florida, but nice for a change: "Florida Man Becomes Human Chair for Elderly Woman."
The elevator was fixed after a little while and nobody was the worse for wear.
Larios got a lot of attention for this when a photo of the incident went viral. And good for him for thinking on his feet hands and knees and giving Young a break.
