September 20, 2011 5 Comments
My dear friend Jean at Snoring Dog Studio blogs about the petty horrors of the elevator experience. A wonderful read, and I’m particularly jolted into ah-ha by her description of the Easy Rider — the person who “hops on the elevator and pushes the button for ONE floor up or down.”
I’ve never had a very compelling poker face — but it entirely disappears when someone gets on an elevator and pushes one floor up (assuming stairs are available). I’m visibly appalled. HATE IT. Unless, you know (as Jean notes), they’re in a wheelchair, or 112 with a walker.
Or if they’re friendly, or manifestly self-aware in some way (“yeah, I was an ass and got off one floor too soon, sorry”), or they look like Jesus or Buddha, or they otherwise fascinate me (e.g., they’re deep in a cell-phone conversation, and I hear, “take a deep breath, okay? now go f*ck yourself” or “I’m not talking about Western civilization here, you provincial idiot, I’m talking about the planet”), or they have really long hair, and it’s real, or looks real enough to me, or they’re singing a song and look at me with a beatific smile that disarms my instinctive distrust of people who sing in public, or they laugh, and it’s not a guffaw or a snort but a gentle thing and their eyes plead with me to share their laugh, or they’re 9, or they immediately drop to the ground and beat the elevator floor and curse life, but apologize to me, or they stumble in and they’re obviously drunk but sweetly offer me a sip, or they most kindly wish to convert me to their religion (I LOVE these people), or they’re rather obviously on their first job interview and nervously drop their fake satchel, or they’re wearing a Dallas Cowboys shirt here in Washington D.C. (all fox pauses forgiven), or it’s someone I know and they say (but it must be these exact words), “oh my god, Kendrick, it’s been way too long, how are you?!” (“my close personal friend” optional), or it’s President Obama, or Jesus, or Buddha, or a totally naked person who looks at me sheepishly, or a person on acid who convincingly describes the elevator in an entirely new way (e.g., “this is a potato and we’re the condiments”), or a Communist (only six left, what are the odds?!), or anybody with the Third Eye (for real), or Rebecca Black, even if she’s singing, or anyone with exaggerated shifty eyes because looking to their left and right repeatedly and for no apparent reason kind of turns me on, or the Little Prince.
But other than that, HATE IT.