It occurred to me the other day that I’m spending an awful lot of time in elevators. This is, of course, a factor of age, occupation, age, social life, age… Well, you may get my drift. Gone are the days when I thought nothing of running up or down several flights of stairs. Nowadays,
My two man-made knees and my creaky back appreciate elevators, but I’ve also learned some interesting life lessons while hanging out in elevators.
In the first place, I never get to hear all of the story. That’s frustrating. “So Albert and Mrs. G are having a little fling, and you know what?” (Door opens. Arggh!!) “Well, I’ve pretty well decided that this job is just not worth it. Next week I’m going to” (Door opens. Rats!) (Enter as door opens): “…and she said that if he doesn’t do something about this situation and do it now, I’ll do something.” “How are you going to do that?” (Door opens. I’ll never know, but I’ll be reading the paper.) I have often thought I could take some of these overheard bits and pieces and write a novel – or at least a short story!
Another commonality for us Riders In the Sky is our profound ambivalence to the sounds around us. Of course, there’s the famous elevator music. Kenny G must make a fortune from all that sound that comes from his side-mouth clarinet. Couldn’t the building afford the Boston Pops, music from great ballets or even Mariachi? Maybe the decision-makers are afraid we’ll break into dance and disrupt the cables. I don’t know.
Then there’s perfume. Some folks, both men and women, must splash on large quantities of really pungent perfume or after-shave just before boarding the elevator. You could die from the fumes. And even after the offender has left, the melody lingers on. I used to live in a high rise in Montreal, and I could always tell if the woman who lived three floors up had been in the elevator; she wore a fake fur that was drenched in Armani. To this day, I hate the smell!
And, of course, there’s the ever-present cell phone attached to a fellow rider’s face. I always thought there was no internet service in the confines of an elevator; not so. Being in the elevator may just require that one speaks louder and repeats often. But I only hear one side of a conversation and I’m left to wonder what the other person was saying. It has occurred to me, however, that people on cell phones while in an elevator have found a way to avoid talking to anyone who is also on the elevator. It’s all a fake, people! You gaze at the floor lights with rapt attention, I talk on my cell phone. Mission accomplished: I don’t have to talk to you or even admit your presence.
Another thing that’s odd about elevator travel: if you’ve ever been on an elevator with a man whose religion forbids he look at other women, he must, perforce, turn to the wall. In the small confines of an elevator car, this is disconcerting to say the least. Why doesn’t he just get a cell phone and stare at the floor numbers as they appear?
Finally, for the truly faint-hearted, there are the scary sounds some elevators make (I don’t mean Kenny G). I’m going along, up or down as the case may be, when out of nowhere comes this groaning sound and I start to wonder if this is my trip to the Great Beyond instead of to the 20th floor. Furtively, I glance around at my fellow passengers and no one seems to be alarmed or grasping the side rails, so I decide that they are all used to this particular elevator and its song. Nothing to worry about, right? And have you ever checked the weight allowance posted in the elevator? Why is that posted inside the elevator instead of in big letters outside where all those people who are trying to crowd on are? We’re all going to die….
And have you ever checked the weight allowance posted in the elevator? Why is that posted inside the elevator instead of in big letters outside where all those people who are trying to crowd on are?
I’m glad to announce (in case you haven’t noticed) that you needn’t take an elevator to enter the beautiful Temple
– E Doyle