There are eight elevators at my workplace that I usually ride 4-6 times a day.
Sometimes you meet interesting people on the elevator. Like the guy who asked a lady standing next to us “do I know you?…yeah, I do! You’re a defense lawyer– you represented me!” She acknowledged that she was who he recognized, then got off at her floor. “Man, she was gooooooood. She got me off and I didn’t even have to serve any time!” Awkward silence from those of us remaining.
Or maybe you get to be on the elevator with some locally-famous person, like a news anchor or the deputy mayor. Or the lady who is always on the news talking about snow removal after a big winter storm. I feel important on those rides.
Occasionally you’re alone on the elevator, then the doors will open and the only other person to get on decides to stand…right next to you (I’m telling you, Jerry Seinfeld must have rode lots of elevators! those tiny cubes house a wealth of material). Or there are the people who take the elevator to floor 2. Guess they didn’t see the big staircase in the lobby…. Or the people who insist on making the doors open when you’re just about to be on your way up, just to squeeze into the tiny space between your foot and the elevator door and the lady standing next to you with the huge bag.
Sometimes the most interesting people are the ones you don’t meet. Big Hand Man is a legend in our building. Nobody knows who he is or how he manages to ride each of the eight elevators and leave his mark without anyone seeing–a gigantic hand print on the shiny stainless steel elevator doors. I’m told the cleaning staff windexes his mark away each evening, but it reappears soon enough. Who is this man and why is his hand so big? Sometimes others will add a small thumbprint or small hand next to the big hand, but they’re only pale imitators. There is only one big hand man. Well, at least that’s what I like to think…I’m a romantic.