I finally got to 6 ½ conversations—and all I had to do was trap some poor sod in an elevator to get there.
Ok, not really trap… more like confuse. You see, the elevator in my building tends to have its own strong opinions regarding which floor should be yours. So, if you want to get off on the third floor, and the elevator has other thoughts on the matter, you could end up somewhere else altogether.
Actually, it would be rather cool if it also granted wishes—such as opening the door to George Clooney’s floor instead of the laundry. Or opened the door straight into the ice cream shop across the street. Or… yeah, you get the idea.
Naturally, a young man got into the elevator on the first floor. He wanted to go up to one of the upper floors. The Rod Serling elevator decided that he should meet me on the ground floor instead. So, despite the fact that the man started on a higher level and pressed all the correct buttons, he got to enjoy a detour full of witty repartee and charm. In fact, not only did the elevator answer my call first, but it forced him to visit all the floors in between the ground and his destination just for fun.
The conversation wasn’t groundbreaking, but he did note that he appeared to be trapped in the elevator (as opposed to R Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet”), which gave us minutes of good, clean, wholesome humor before we bid each other adieu.
I’d like to tell you that it was love at first sight (or third floor). I’d like to tell you that, but alas, I really only managed to cut myself on the box of water I was holding.
No worries, it only bled a little… bandages didn’t even soak through…probably no scarring…totally worth needing to get that tetanus shot.