text: Fourth Floor To Yesterday--George Davis The tallest building in my city is six-stories. My insurance company, City Casualty and Life is on the fourth floor. It was on a Monday morning when I drove to the Liberty Building on Congress Street. The entrance to the establishment was revolving doors. I hate those contraptions. I always zig when I should zag. After going around two or three times, I ended up in the lobby. The entrance is 30’s art deco-style, with the ornate reds, golds and chrome. There are two elevators, one on either side of a large portrait of the man who designed the building, Arthur Alexander. Before the door closed, I heard someone say, “Hold it!” The intruder, I call him an intruder since I had already pushed the button. “Good morning,” the stranger said, keeping his head down. He was dressed funny. His clothes would be more apropos in a 19th century setting. All black long coat, dark suit and vest with a gold watch fob decorating his clothes. Why does he keep looking down at the floor.?Why doesn’t he look at me? Am I that repulsive? I didn’t think I was. I’m five-ten, two-hundred pounds. I have light brown hair sprinkled with a touch of gray. I’ve got all my own teeth, and I don’t think my nose is too large. “Nice day,” I said. He didn’t answer. “Nice day,” I repeated, thinking maybe he was a little deaf. Still no answer. Okay, I get off this car in another minute. “What the...” The lights in the elevator went out, and the car came to a jumping halt. I said, “What’s the matter?” As if he would know. He finally spoke. “I think this elevator is having a problem.” No kidding, you think just because the lights went out and the car stopped, there is a problem. This is not the time for my claustrophobia to kick in. But, guess what? It did. I froze, clutching the chrome guard rail with a white-knuckle death grip. The stranger asked, “Nervous?” “I don’t like closed in places.” I could feel the sweat rolling down my back, and my hands were swimming in perspiration. I thought back to when I was seven years old, and my older brother locked me in my father’s tool shed. I was in there for two hours before my dad unlocked the door when he heard me screaming. This, I believe, is where I acquired this fear. “Rest, relax, the company will have this car fixed in no time. Let me tell you a story that happened to me a few years ago. My tale will help pass the time.” The stranger began to regale me with this weird tale. To this day, I don’t know if it is true, or if he made it up as he went along. “When I was in my twenties, I worked for the railroad in Kansas City. A job I was not trained to do well. I was a conductor. It was my job to collect the tickets and to wave the red lantern to the engineer signaling it was okay to move the iron horse.” Though I was fascinated with his story, I maintained a certain amount of skepticism. “One day while collecting tickets, I came across a man who looked very familiar, though I couldn’t place his face. I asked him his name, he smiled and said, you can call me ‘Doc.’” “Okay, I said, Doc it is.” I went about my business until we came to Tombstone Arizona where Doc got off the train. Before he exited the car, he said, “nice ride, conductor. Hope to see you again someday.” It was two months later while getting my haircut at the barber's, I picked up a magazine with an article about early western gunfighters. And there on the inside cover was a picture of the man on the train; dark hair, deep brown eyes, and a wide mustache on his upper lip. it was a picture of John Henry ‘Doc’ Holliday, Wyatt Earp’s friend, and companion at the OK Corral. Even so, how can that be? I asked myself. Doc Holliday has been dead over a hundred years. I didn’t believe his story. It was too ridiculous. However, it had a feeling of being true. I was still skeptical as he finished his story. Believing I had met Doc Holliday on that train, that day. On Tuesday, my day off, I went to the local library to research Doc’s history. I found that he was born on August 14, 1851, and died on November 8, 1887. He was a dentist, graduated from Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery. Tuberculosis soon diminished his ability as a dentist, and he moved to Arizona. It is said, he killed more than a dozen men in various conflicts throughout his lifetime. “It was more like fifteen,” the stranger said. The stranger continued. “I still believe Doc Holliday is alive today. Don’t ask me how or why, but I know one thing. I saw him on that train that day in Kansas.” Stranger things have happened, I guess, but nothing would be more uncanny than Doc Holliday being alive today. After a half hour, the lights in the car came back on, and the car began to move. The stranger got off on the third floor. As he exited the car, he turned and smiled. His appearance was that of a man from the 19th century. He had black hair under his hat, dark-brown eyes that pierced my soul, a large black mustache on his upper lip. He winked at me as if to say, 'good-bye, my friend. Today. You have met John Henry ‘Doc’ Holliday. Have a great life.’ I too, went to the local library and researched Doc Holliday. I don’t know how to explain this, but the man in the elevator was, or is, Doc Holliday. I shook my head, and decided I had truly met John Henry 'Doc' Holliday. It is true; truth is stranger than fiction!