SALISBURY — I realized the contradiction right away. I was huffing and puffing up the three flights of stairs to the newsroom — getting good exercise, you might say — and carrying a bag full of cold pizza slices with me.

I wanted to eat the pizza later for lunch.

I took the stairs because the elevator, as the homemade sign on each floor announced, was broken. And I did it.

It happened Saturday afternoon. I planned to meet photographer Jon Lakey at the newspaper, then head out with him on a scheduled feature story in Woodleaf.

Saturday afternoons are pretty quiet in the newspaper building. The doors are locked. The advertising and circulation folks are gone. One person sometimes is downstairs dealing with obituaries.

The news reporter who works on Saturday and the sports guys are usually covering some events or games. They don’t get back until later when the copy desk folks walk in for the night shift.

So we have a pretty empty building on a Saturday afternoon. After I arrived about 1:15 p.m., I hopped on the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. I needed to visit my desk and grab a notebook, pen and some background information for my interview.

Not long into the elevator trip, I felt the car lurch — maybe it was more like a hop — and I realized I wasn’t moving. The button to open the door didn’t work. None of the buttons was responding, or even lighting up.

It’s funny what you do in these situations. I checked the weight limit for this particular elevator, which I have ridden for decades, just to be sure I was not too heavy. The weight capacity said 2,500 pounds, so I figured I was OK, barely.

Next I looked for evidence of the last time this elevator was inspected. I noticed it was installed in 1989, when this part of the building had been renovated, but I didn’t see any inspection updates, just the smiling face of N.C. Labor Commissioner Cherie Berry.

The elevator has an alarm button. I flipped it several times, and in each instance it made a sound like a ringing telephone — the old, rotary-dial kind. If anyone was in the building, he probably could hear it. No response.

The elevator also comes equipped with a telephone, but I used my cellphone instead to call reporter Josh Bergeron. I thought I had seen Josh’s car in the parking lot, but somehow as I was entering the building and getting on the elevator, he had left from another door, hopped in his car and set off for Planet Fitness.

I explained my situation to young Josh, who graciously headed back to the newspaper to lend me moral support. I then called Lakey, who also was headed my way. I later learned Jon called our editor, who called the publisher, who tracked down jack-of-all-trades Gary Watson.

More on Gary later.

At the newspaper, Josh and Jon figured out my elevator was stuck between the second and third floors. We were able to carry on conversations, shouting between the walls and elevator door.

But in this kind of predicament, there’s only so much you can say. It wasn’t long before Jon sheepishly said he was leaving, going back home to retrieve a camera he had forgotten to put in his car.

Josh offered to stick around and wait for Gary. I called the person Jon and I were supposed to meet at 2 p.m. and gave what had to be the worst excuse of all time for being late.

While I waited for a rescue, I paced off the size of my prison. It was about 32 square feet. I sat on the floor for a while and wondered if I should call or text my wife, who was out of town. I sent her a text:

“You are not going to believe this, but I am stuck on the Post elevator between the second and third floors. Help on the way, I think. I’m fine, just ‘annoyed,’ as the kids say.”

My wife responded more than an hour later. She had become absorbed in our baby grandchild and the University of North Carolina’s basketball game. When she finally texted, she said, “So, so sorry. Second half of Heels game started. Hope you’re out of the elevator.”

She added three emoji hearts, but I could tell the Heels and our granddaughter were more important.

Gary rescued me not long after 2 p.m. I had spent 45 minutes in limbo, suspended between those two floors. Not unlike MacGyver, Gary first figured out a way to break into the newspaper building. He no longer had a key.

He then drained the hydraulic fluid slowly out of the elevator and lowered the whole car down to the basement. He still needed to jerry-rig a tool to fit through the outside hole in the elevator door so he could open it manually. He found the long piece of metal rod he needed in a discarded filing cabinet in the basement.

Gary and Josh greeted me as I emerged into the basement a free man and happy we didn’t have to call the Fire Department.

Jon soon returned, and we headed off to our assignment. Meanwhile, Josh affixed the “Elevator Broken” signs and expressed disappointment I hadn’t taken a selfie during my ordeal.

I pass by those signs daily now, knowing everyone in the building blames me as they trudge up the stairs. It’s annoying, as the kids say.

Contact Mark Wineka at 704-797-4263 or mark.wineka@salisburypost.com.