Monday, May 01, 2006

Lovin’ it up when I’m goin’ down.

This post originally appeared on Humpday.com's Brownian Motion on March 23, 2006

Since my last two entries dealt with cheese, I thought I'd start with that theme for today's post.

I love elevators. The best part of riding in elevators is the opportunity to make banal, meaningless conversation with strangers:

Me: "Going up? Heh, heh, heh."
Stranger(s): [Vague mumbling with eyes averted]

or

Me (on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, respectively): "Monday, eh?" "Humpday, huh?" "Hey, TGIF!"
Stranger(s): [Vague mumbling with eyes averted, slowly backing towards the door]

Yes, folks, I am that guy!

On occasions when I'm feeling particularly frisky, I like to add a touch of surrealism to the journey:

Me (to person getting on): "Can I press a button for you?"
Person: "Yes, four please."
Me: "Mm, four is the number of death. I'll press three for you instead."
Person: "Excuse me?"
Me: "I'm pressing three. It's a much better floor."
Person: "Wha—?"
Me: "Technically, I only asked if I could press a button for you. I don't particularly care what button you want pressed."
Person: [Vague mumbling with eyes averted, slowly backing towards the door, reaching for their mace]

The fact that I work in a hospital (or, as I like to think of it, 'a place where they charge you up the ass for parking') lends itself to all kinds of fun. I once got on the elevator with a couple of EMTs pushing a gurney. I asked them if I could push a floor for them (tee-hee, see above.) When it turned out they were only going up one floor, I rolled my eyes and said, "Hmmph. You guys are lazy."
"Excuse us?"
"You heard me. Whatsa matter, your legs broken or something? You can't walk up one flight of stairs?"
"Er, but, we have this gurney..."

Medical professionals have no sense of humour.

(I'm serious. Try asking a doctor if they've ever left anything inside a patient during surgery and then constantly repeating, "But how can you be sure?" when they respond in the negative. You'll see what I mean.)

I used to work in a building that had mirrors on the ceilings in the elevators. The cheesy motel jokes came almost too easily.

Elevators aren't all fun and games, however. As I mentioned above, I work in a hospital. This particular hospital serves the northern Alberta hinterland, and so I'm always meeting the American Gothic couple on the elevator. Now, I've seen the kinds of bell-and-whistled SUVs these folks drive, so I can't understand how they've apparently never encountered a fucking elevator in their lives. I mean, Barney and Betty Hill probably approached their first flying saucer with less trepidation than these folks do a standard Otis hydraulic.

The encounter almost always happens this way:

I finish my smoke in the basement (one lung left to go!), and hit five for my floor. The doors open on main, and I practically have to shout "GOING UP?" to stop them flinging their shit at each other long enough to notice that the monolith has arrived. After several minutes of sniffing around and gingerly pawing at the opened doors ("Where'd they go?") they snuffle their way over to me, standing under the neon fucking green 'up' arrow:
"Is this elevator going up?"
"Yeah, along with my fucking blood pressure, you goddamn moron," I scream inside my head.
"Oh, we wanted down." Aaaaaaaeeeeeayaaaaaagh!
And then, as if they'd just caught sight of some shiny baubles somewhere else, they turn and waddle out, paying no more heed to the sobbing mess in the corner that is me. God help me if one them is in a wheelchair.

I've noticed that the likelihood of this type of incident increases in proportion to my need for a refill of coffee. Speaking of which, it's about time for a coffee break. I think today I'd better take the stairs.

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