Love (actually, Hate) in an Elevator

I spend a lot of time in elevators. I suppose that's to be expected. Forget San Francisco, this is the real vertical city. When a 22-square-mile island has the priciest real estate in the country, well, there's nowhere to build but up.

I generally don't mind elevators. They're, for the most part, efficient and speedy. They keep me from having to trudge up stairs, especially when wearing heels. They provide a moment to calm and compose oneself before entering the office, or facing the roommates, or joining the throngs on the streets of the city. That is, of course, if one is lucky enough to have the elevator all to herself.

And as seems to be a theme in my life, I am never that lucky.

I end up sharing elevator cars with people yakking on their cell phones (And incidentally, why are the conversations I overhear always so banal? Does the person on the other end really need a minute by minute play-by-play of your activities? Is that person edified to hear that "Ok, I just got on the elevator. I should be there in 2 minutes. Oh, wait, we're stopping on the fourth floor, better make that 2.5 minutes.") or listening to MP3 players set nice and loud so we can all enjoy the misogynistic rap music emanating from the headphones (I cannot even begin to imagine how people can listen to "music" at this decibel level. Do we as a culture value our hearing so little?) Then there are those who insist on carrying on a highly personal conversation with someone else on the elevator. But those people are never actually standing next to each other. Oh no, they let themselves get pushed to opposite sides of the crowded elevator cars so that rather than speak in hushed tones amongst themselves, we all get treated to the details of Cheryl's recent visit to the podiatrist.

But the ones who make me the craziest are the ones whose crimes actually seem the most innocuous. It's the people who don't pay attention! You know what I mean. The person who absentmindedly wanders off the elevator on the fifth floor thinking that he's reached the lobby. The person who stands fully in the doorway and then looks startled, like you've deeply disturbed them, when you try to get on the elevator on another floor, like they never realized that elevators might make a few stops in between their embarkation and departure points. The same goes for the people who crowd up in front of an escalator in a lobby and then act surprised and annoyed when the elevator finally arrives and a crowd of people would actually like to get off of it before they can get on.

Seriously, people, get a grip! It's truly not that difficult. For heaven's sake, the floor numbers are displayed above the door! Is it that hard to sneak a glance before you wander off and then back on on the wrong floor? To step to the side or the back of the elevator, just in case someone dares to try to enter the car on another floor? To let the people exit before you shove your way on? I daresay no, no it is not that hard.

And for the record, whatever happened to elevator music? There's a reason it's called elevator music... because it should be played in an elevator! I like a little something to hum along to (actually, that's a lie. I like a little something to hum along to in my head. I give disapproving glares to people who hum (or, horror of horrors, sing) in close public quarters.) Stick a Barry Manilow tape on continuous loop in those things (this would have the added benefit of decreasing elevator crowding, as not everyone shares my love for Barry.) I beg of you, oh masters of the almighty elevator, to give me something to focus on besides the appalling behavior of my fellow passengers, and you would earn my eternal gratitude.