The elevator is painfully slow (think Winter street office in Boston, or Temple Place) and I work on the 10th floor. Today I shared it with a grey, tired looking man. Together we watched the digital numbers and silently counted along 2...3...4... Finally the display showed 8 and the elevator gave a bright *ding!* and groaned to a stop. The man readied himself to exit and whispered, softly, prayer-like, “Take care”.
There was a pause before the doors opened. Too long. And suddenly the man was embarrassed. He shuffled his feet, looked side to side, then, as soon as he was able, darted out without looking back.
1 comment:
It's actually funny that you're writing about this. I'm mildly obsessed with elevators in general, and elevator etiquette in particular.
It's like this weirdly personal shared experience, when you're in there with one person. Almost like an intimacy with strangers, and that can lead to embarrassment.
Nicholson Baker has an excellent short novel called 'The Mezzanine' which takes place essentially entirely in one guy's mind, while riding up an escalator. I've often wanted to do a long piece based on an elevator ride, and instead of being in the head, it's all about the semi-forced, semi-comfortable interactions.
Or maybe I'll just read a magazine instead.
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