My office is 12 stories tall and has six elevators that service every floor. For a significant amount of the working day, this is a sufficient capacity to accomodate the number of people in the building. When you arrive before 8:45 in the morning, you never have to wait more than 10 seconds for a spacious elevator to welcome you. And it's great service; want me to hold the elevator, no problem, got all the time in the world, I'm early. No stopping in the lobby or hitting another level of the parking garage. A personal expressway to your cubicle. Sounds like such a trivial moment to enjoy. But I'd rather roll around in broken glass than arrive late.
Once you start hitting the peak of the rush hour bell curve, the options for parking and the borders of your personal space dwindle at an incredible rate. You plummet into the depths of the garage where the flourescent lights flicker, exposing the petri-dish puddles. I saw Gollum down there the other day. He kept asking me to help him look for his "precious". Sorry Gollum, I'm f*ckin' late.
At this point, things are more screwed up than Neverland Ranch. The elevators purposely disregard the lower-levels of the parking garage for the 9:00am-9:15am arrivals. The C-level executives collude with the building engineers to punish late arrivals even though the early risers get no props. I have the emails to prove it but I just can't risk the safety of my family. The dwindling number of available elevators is inversely proportional to the explosion of employee arrivals. This chaotic combination destroys the common decencies we enjoy in our everyday lives. The very moral fiber and structure of our society begin to crumble.
The collapse of common courtesy takes shape through body language which appears harmless on the surface but speaks volumes of its true intent. Everyone begins to position themselves for what they believe will be the next elevator. Small groups form and cluster near different doors, all of which are closed. Chips on a roullette table. Six elevators and six possibilities of which one will open next. You've been waiting five minutes, I don't care. You were the first one here, I don't care. You're our CEO, I don't care. It's survival of the luckiest to see who picks the right one. Let's spin the wheel!
"Ding", a light above one of the elevators comes to life and an organized riot ensues. Everyone starts pushing themselves into position and the scene resembles a Tokyo subway. As always, I'm caught right in the middle. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. After pummeling an Amish guy in the face with a cane I stole from a geriatric admin assistant I am safely on board the corporate vessel. Once the dust has settled, there are two worlds staring at each other; the ones who picked the right elevator and the ones in a galaxy four footsteps away, still waiting in the elevator lobby. I'm staring back at the poor souls who fortune did not favor. I've been on both sides of the coin my friend, I feel your pain. Now get your foot out of the way before I have to use my stolen cane again. Ready to breathe a sigh of relief I realize I'm right by the panel. I'm the unofficial elevator operator. Way too much responsibility.
"Floor six please", "Seven", "Twelve", "Lobby", "Mezzanine". Everyone slow down! I'm tempted to light up all the floors just to shut everyone up. First things first, hit the "close door" button I tell myself. Too late, a silver-haired gentleman jams himself into the elevator with luggage that's older than he is. He gives a forced smile to everyone on board in a feeble attempt to relate. His smile is met with sneers of disgust. The elevator gallery gives a collective groan at my slug-like reflexes. Everyone knows this guy shouldn't have made it. I hope no one on board is a fire marshal because we're definitely at maximum density. "Packed like lemmings in shiny metal boxes, contestants in a suicidal race". Ready to hit the button for takeoff, my eyes accidentally lock with a scared girl on the other side of the elevator tracks. So young, so green.
There potentially is one spot left if you're the size of Calista Flockhart on the last season of Ally McBeal. I begin to receive mixed messages from the girl. Her head and feet twitch with indecision. My pupils scream, "Go for it". I don't want to be the one responsible for holding the "Open Door" button because some neophyte doesn't know the rules of rush hour survival. I can't shirk my duties again or I'll have a mutiny on my hands. Do I give her the school of hard knocks or a get out of jail free card? She twitches again, it's borderline OCD. School of hard knocks Ms. Greenyoung. I'm a nice guy, but at this moment I can't afford to be. The elevator door shuts and the silent approval from my fellow elevatorpool is deafening. "One of us, one of us, one of us."
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