Waiting (for the Elevator)

Ring.

Beep.

Some high-pitched noise that tries to sound pleasant but comes off as shrill.

Ring.

Beep.

Is it here?

These things, he thought, as he pressed the round, raised button to go downstairs from his condo floor.

“And will I have to make small talk? Please, I don’t want to make small talk. At least with a mask on they can only see my eyes.

“But my eyes tell so much.”

As fear of talking to people he didn’t care about sought to overcome him, a different thought overtook his mind.

“What is the life that will be presented to me when those doors open? Who will the person be who’s standing in front of me?”

He wondered about their lives, their stories, backgrounds, futures, and desires. If something was currently going wrong that day, or better yet, if something was actually going right. His imagination was intrigued even though the doors hadn’t opened.

He hadn’t seen them, he didn’t know who they were, but he was fascinated with the concept of who they might be.

He hadn’t seen them, he didn’t know who they were, and soon they would see him.

Worried again, he contemplated with anxiousness whether the situation may be returned in reverse. But before falling into the trap of thinking so much of himself that strangers would think so much of him, he realized just this. There’s no reason to be overwhelmed in a life that underwhelms us so often.

He further assured himself the barrier between tenth floor foyer and two door elevator would be enough to provide protection from them getting to know him, the one-inch gap he would have to cross over to enter the contraption. Somehow it seemed like the long, slender hall was completely separate from the eight-by-eight feet square space. Even with the doors open, he decided they couldn’t see him.

Still, he wanted to see them. And he wondered what their lives and their stories may hold.

“What if it’s a doctor, a nurse, bartender, or teacher? Deadbeat? No, a deadbeat couldn’t live here. Deadbeat on their parent’s money? More likely.”

He thought to himself as eternity awaited him; it felt like eternity, at least, waiting, watching, wondering.

“Will they have a family? Be single? In a relationship with someone they love? Stuck in a dead-end marriage with a dead-end job with someone they love but who doesn’t love them back? Ah, unrequited love, just like high school.”

It was now taking some time, a noticeable amount of time, for the elevator to arrive at his floor and the doors to open. The elevators in this building were fast, but often one or more did not work. How much does he pay to be inconvenienced? How much does one pay in life, he reasoned.

“There are so many endless opportunities, it’s truly astounding and amazing and invigorating to think of all the things one can be! And enticing and exciting and… upsetting to think of all the things I could have been.”

His internal voice trailed off in his head, his jubilant attitude turning downcast, wide eyes shutting and ear-to-ear smile fading.

“I… I could have been anything. Well, maybe not anything, but many things. Not this.”

He searched his inner soul: thoughts and feelings he hadn’t experienced in some time, but the pain of which he knew all too well, familiar when recalled from the deep caverns of his mind.

To be fair to himself, it’s not like he lived a bad life. He had a good job – whatever that means; a good condo, good car, good friends. He was as complete as one could be without the ‘l’.

But looking back, is this really where he wanted to be at this point in his life? Standing in the hall, waiting for an elevator in this condo, about to drive his car to his job so that he can afford this condo and car and buy drinks with drinking friends he wouldn’t invite in on a non-night out?

Retreating from his mind, looking back: at the elevator door, still not open, forcing him to be alone with his thoughts. Is this really where he wanted to be? Can’t someone from another room on his floor walk up? God, small talk would be preferable.

Purgatory, this truly was.

“When did it all go wrong? Was it ever right? Oh, who I could have been… who could I have been?”

His brain began to repeat the loop before he caught himself again. This time though, instead of pain, it almost went to pleasure – to get off on the high of fantasizing of who he could be and what he would be doing at this given moment if he was someone else, in lieu of becoming depressed he wasn’t someone else. The adventures that await. Hell, it almost gave him a kick of dopamine.

“It’s too early in the day to be day-dreaming.”

Standing in hell, waiting for the elevator in his condo.

“I’d rather be asleep. Damnit, I need my black double shot coffee.”

He retraced the steps to how he got here: from his room to this space and from his birth to this place. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact date and time it all went wrong. Maybe one month ago, one year, a decade, a day. Perhaps 1/1/2011 or 8/8/2007. 12:13am or 7:06pm. All he could make out is, over time, no coffee turned into coffee with creamer then to black coffee to one shot and now two. There’s got to be more to life than me waking up and requiring my fucking black double shot coffee.

“And what is taking this damn elevator so long?”

He was starting to not care anymore about the life on the other side. There’s a possibility he never cared in the first place except for his own relative comparison, a jealousy of greener grass and a reminder of his own shortcomings; he’d never be tall enough to climb the stairs up and take the tumble down when needed. No, he’d make plans for another day, not even in his real life journal that he didn’t even keep, but jot them down in his memory, a day-dream he’ll revisit from time-to-time in the car and again on runs or while going to sleep and wish he could actually visit in his dreams.

He could’ve been anything, he figured. Arrogant, he was. But although he was arrogant, he was also insecure, and although he couldn’t have been anything, he was still something, not nothing – no matter how often he tried to tell himself he was.

It was true he (or she) could have been very many things. As life continued, though, he reasoned he must continue to be the one thing he has known, to remain on the path he has chosen but did not pave, to keep going forward on this journey with the hope that eventually it’ll lead to happiness and fulfillment. He had pushed the button to go down. What was taking this damn elevator so long?

Ring. Beep. A high-pitched noise that tries to sound pleasant but comes off as shrill.

“Who will be in the elevator when the doors open, and will I have to make small talk?”

The laminated stainless steel doors opened, receding into the sides of the machine. He brought his attention up from the ground to eye level.

And he saw no one.

The elevator was empty. Potentially it’ll lead to life and be full tomorrow.

“I guess this is my reality. This is who I am. I am a no one. I am nothing. I thought I’d done so little with my life that I could have seen any number of individuals in the elevator and pondered a life like theirs and be envious with my desire. Apparently, I’ve done so little there aren’t any individuals to see.”

He moped, his dejected brain contemplated the button to push: G for “Ground” might as well have read RB for, well, you know. He selected it, and down he went.

He didn’t realize he had eight other paths to choose from, still, even at his age.

Ten floors, including the one he was on, the rock bottom, and the eight between. This didn’t count the many more above. The many lives above. The many stories in the building. The many stories to be told.

The elevator doors closed in front of him. He acted like they shut automatically, but they only shut because he pressed the button.

He was boring. He was normal. He didn’t understand the reason the word “extraordinary” existed since he was just extra ordinary. He wanted to be someone else: to either sell his soul and become powerful or feed his soul with creativity and charity. He was stuck between the two. Stuck is a compliment, because truthfully, he was too lazy to go all in on a commitment. Getting high on the thought was the single form of effort he could put forth.

The elevator lifted him momentarily before beginning its descent down. Just another 10,440 times and he’ll be dead.

Only he could permanently lift himself up.


He’d repeat the same routine tomorrow.



Could it be the one who I’ll marry? Is this really how we’ll meet? In an elevator, a story we can tell our kids and their kids if we’re still revolving around the sun by the time we’ve gained enough financial security and “adult”-like maturity to adequately plan for, afford, and raise kids in the first place. Ah, I can’t wait until I can accomplish all those things with someone I haven’t met yet but will really marry in a year or two. Indeed, that will be quite the story.

He’d repeat the same routine tomorrow.

If I was a famous _, I’d be on _, _ing _ _ _.

If I was a famous singer, I’d be on tour, playing shows for millions.

If I was a famous actor, I’d be on television, acting in big hits.

If I was a famous athlete, I’d be on ESPN, catching passes from Brady.

If I was this, if I was that.

Businessperson. Entrepenuer. Start-up. Painter. Venture capitalist. Politician. Mover. Shaker. DJ.

If I was this, if I was that.

He’d repeat the same routine tomorrow.

Let me get high imagining myself as this and that, how my tour would go and how I’d curate my shows.

Let me get high and not actually do anything but write subpar, bland prose.

Let me get high imagining myself as this and that and those.

And not actually do anything about it.

Not actually do anything to make it happen.

Because getting high for a moment is good enough until another distraction comes up, until you’re standing, waiting for an elevator, and no person comes up, no stranger for small talk, and there’s no small talk for yourself, only your problems that make you think you need help.

So get high for a moment. But not a high off a drug, unless that’s your thing. No, the author is speaking metaphorically.

Seven continents of billions of people. No one unique. But everyone has their stories. And I’m here waiting for the elevator drinking my double black coffee. So many things I could have done. So many things I could still do. But I’m here waiting for the elevator drinking my French vanilla hazelnut double black coffee. Who the fuck put these two flavors together.

He’d repeat the same routine tomorrow, except with a house blend double black coffee. Maybe iced, if he was feeling particularly risky.