"Good thing we installed these express elevators, otherwise it might take a long time to get up there."
On his way up, the elevator unexpectedly stopped. White hit the alarm and waited. Nothing. He investigated his surroundings -- there was nothing in his 6-by-6 box. No warning text, no elevator emergency phone, not even a mirror with which to check out his beautiful '90s mullet. So he waited some more. After all, how long could it really take for someone to notice that the elevator had never arrived? Half an hour? An hour?
Time passed. No one came. Starting to get desperate, White tried to pry the door open, presumably planning to climb down the elevator shaft like in Die Hard. Instead, he was met with a solid concrete wall with the number 13 stenciled on it. That's the thing about an express elevator -- it doesn't stop at those floors, so there were no openings. It was 39 floors of solid concrete shaft. White could do nothing but stand there for the rest of the afternoon. And into the night. And then overnight. Then all day the next day.
Giving all of his co-workers a free scapegoat for the day.
All told, White was stuck in that little metal box for 41 fucking hours, on the unlucky 13th floor, no less, with nothing but three matches, his wallet, and some cigarettes. No food, no water, no bathroom, and no indication that anyone was making any effort whatsoever to get him out. All he could do was pace around in dead silence (he kept the alarm going for as long as possible, but the constant ringing caused him to have auditory hallucinations). This is where you have to wonder if maybe your employers don't care about you quite as much as they say they do.