When I am riding the elevator at work I generally employ closed eyes and an inner mantra to keep my 'I am free and on a beach' bubble intact. My office is on the top floor of the building, and invariably the elevator, after forcing a lengthy wait for its arrival, will abuse me further by opening on every floor before deigning to arrive at mine. A typical ride is an endless round of door openings; people peering in and saying "going up?" when the light outside clearly shows otherwise; people squeezing on at the last minute, then jumping out just as the doors are closing again, thereby jamming the elevator and requiring application of force to the doors to regain momentum; and an influx of crazies, squalling children, wheelchairs, and excessively large rear ends. Such is elevator life in a hospital.
Today I was doing my usual exhausted 'I am not here' slump in the back corner when all at once I heard, "S--, you're looking like a flamenco dancer today." What was this new horror? I definitely did not know the person speaking from the far side of the crowded elevator; he must have read my name off my ID and cruelly decided to burst my inner monologue. I peered over at him. "That's a nice skirt," he added, "you look like you're going to a bullfight." Everyone on the elevator turned to check me out. I offered a vague smile and thank you, and an impatient glance at the slowly decending floor display. "You should go to Toledo, they'd really love you over there." "Lotta LOOOOVE on this elevator today!!" crowed a nurse at the front, as the elevator finally, and not a moment too soon, shuddered to a stop and belched me out.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment