Elevator, How I Love You.

The building I work in has three elevators.  I swear, the elevators are pulled up and down by a team of anemic squirrels wearing Cottonelle toilette paper on their feet.  These are some of the slowest elevators known to exist.

Grass grows faster.

Paint dries quicker.

The Karate Kid finished waxing the car faster.

Than these elevators move a total of 6 floors.  You would think these squirrels were having to move the cars 60 floors.  Nope.  Just 6.

You press the button and wait.

You wait so long The Fonz leather jacket has come back into style along with poodle skirts.  If you’re not watching these doors like a hawk, the doors will open.  Close.  Continue to next floor without you even being aware.

Why?

2/3 of them don’t have bells.  Or buzzers.  No ringers.  Forget it.  There’s no chime to be had when the car arrives at your floor.  These elevators are the silent, agony inducing, mechanical jokers of our work day.   Silently cursing you should you miss their arrival, departing every so silently with a hushed sigh of the door closing.

There you are with your hands full either with your lunch tray (Who actually goes to lunch anymore?  Oh yeah, first graders and Palm Beach housewives.)  or your work survival kit for the day:  laptop bag, purse, lunch bag, umbrella and mega-mega sized coffee.   You’re watching for the arrow to light up.  Just like the red or green light outside a Catholic Church confessional box.  Red = Not so fast.  Green = confess your sins you sloth.

Side note:  What a flash back.  I grew up Catholic.  I think nearly everyone who went to Catholic school has been traumatized in one way or another.  I can still remember standing in line waiting for the confessional.  I’d rest my head against the cool marble wall, wishing the earth would swallow me trying to think of what sins I had that week.  Come on people, how much trouble can a 5th grader get into?  I’m sure the priests were just jumping for joy when their schedule read:  Hear Sister Marie’s 5th Grade confessions 10:00AM.  I’d spit out a list of “sins” and then end with “I lied” only to cover the fact half of what I just said was a big, old, fat, LIE!

Anyhow.

The elevator doors open at the first floor and obviously, people have to get off first.  Logical.  Then the herd of us going up can get on and go.  Go.  GO!

This is what kills me about the elevator.

How many times have you been waiting for the elevator on the ground floor?

The doors open.

You see there are people inside so you patiently wait for them to unload. They look at you.  And it’s apparent….

Everyone inside is waiting for a personal invitation to get off the car.

Or, you’re inside the elevator and it arrives to your floor.  The doors open and the people waiting to get on obvsiously had their noses pressed up again the door.  They actually have to side step to let you off.  I don’t fucking get this.  When did the elevator become your own private transportation service?  Could you move over so I can get off?  If you try to run me down as I am getting off, I will hip check you into the door.

I

AM

NOT

KIDDING.

Or, they don’t move one inch AND they’re annoyed because obviously you are in their in their way.  Hello.  You were waiting on me to arrive.  You must wait for me to get out of the way so you can get on.  If anything, I am pissed you’re in MY WAY.  Now fucking move over.

I’ve been standing, waiting in the hallway for an elevator, when one of these elevator obsessed, I must be first over everyone, junkies has also been waiting for the arrival of the electrical beast.  They plant themselves square in the middle of the crease where the doors will part.  The only thing separating them from the cool slick metal is a small exhale of coffee breath.  It’s as if they’re expecting money to come shooting out that little crack and they want to be there to catch it.

Doors open.

They make a good ol’ college try to charge into the elevator as the doors are slowly opening….but alas,  Melvin was fierce and bolts out of the car like a bull in a rodeo competition.

I’ve also had the pleasure of being inside the elevator when another person gets on and they stand nose to  crack.  Now, I’d understand it should the car have been full.  When it’s just the two of us, I don’t get it.  I’m pretty sure I don’t smell and I definitely am not muttering to myself or carrying a hack saw….so I don’t know what the deal is.  Damn, that close you can’t even see what floor you’re passing.

There’s also the silent gratification when you see someone running for the closing elevator door.  Oh no!  They’re late!

For a very brief moment, a moment that passed quicker than a duck fart…. you actually consider holding the door for them.  In fact, you give them a grimaced look and frantically try and find the “Hold Doors Open” button.  The last thing they hear is a muffled, “sor.”

Opps.  You accidentally hit the “Close Doors Quick Cause That Guy is Coming Who Always Smells Like Burned Popcorn” button.  So sorry, you lose.  Better luck next time.  Thanks for playing, popcorn dude.

Elevators.

People want to ride them.

Want to get in them.

Watch them open and close, like a silent mechanical Jaws plying the air of the building.

Taking one but not another.

Sneaking up on you.

Teasing you.

It’s like muskrat love – but different.

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