Going inside the box has a whole new meaning.

Apropos of nothing, I’m gonna see if I can write about elevators for 30 minutes. Believe me, this shit is going down!

This morning I was exhausted. Now you see that word, but I don’t think you can really feel the extent to which it was true. I felt exhausted like the exit port of a fuel tank. My innards were practically waste products and I was almost sputtering in lieu of using real human speech. I got onto the elevator and looked around. Four people assembled. A guy spoke up “So I guess it’s Friday then?” I looked around. Each of us were a special breed of haggard and we could all tell. Despite the hammy Jim Davis-esque line, downtrodden exteriors cracked in favour of humour. In that moment we all got it. Things were shit, but there was a light at the end of the day. Tunnel vision would get us through.

I took another elevator ride and happened to be accompanied by a lady with a plate of cupcakes and some other dude. They obviously knew each other and the dialogue revolved around the treats. Things were fine, but at a certain point he said a thing that instantly killed my estimation of him. “You know, I did hold the door open for you. How many of these beauties is that worth?” He was joking, clearly, but only in the hackiest capacity. This is in the same breed of “No price? It must be free” retread shit that people keep saying despite the fact that everyone despises it. Someone has food that they’ve made for a specific purpose. You intervene, suggesting they should dilute that purpose and instead give some to you. Why would they do that? You don’t feature in their plans and your incessant neediness in the guise of comedy has just lowered us all. Suddenly we have to interact with the fact that you said a stupid thing and give credence to that stupid thing by responding with an equally dumb retort. We both know it’s not gonna happen, but to just call you a dick would be rude, as if we didn’t know it was rude of you to suggest in the first place that I forgo the needs of others in your favour. How about you bite your tongue instead? Like actually bite it straight off and choke on it. Bleed to death and appease the human race of your virulent genes.

I kind of like the idea of elevator music. Real elevator music, not muzak. I’d love to witness a live band to perform in an elevator. The scale could dictate the kind of performance. A normal elevator could be a simple ukelele and triangle. A service elevator could ramp up to some drums and distortion. The songs could all be relevantly themed. You Raise me Up, Stone Temple Pilots – Down, anything by The Doors, Spice Girls – Stop and naturally Aerosmith – Love in an Elevator. Then again, the acoustics would be pretty punishing. If someone farts in an elevator it’s loud enough. Our elevator at work has glass on three sides. Imagine how much reverb you’d get. I’d love to hear Lightning Bolt perform, then never hear again.

Speaking to that last paragraph, I’ve never had love in an elevator. I’d want to, if only to make an endless stream of puns about “going down” on someone. I mean, I can’t get there in the 30 or so seconds it takes for a single elevator ride. You can hardly get your clothes off in the time it takes to go up three floors. If there was some kind of elevator stoppage (and depending on your level of narcissism), I can imagine our glass one at work would be kind of sexy. There’s a metal railing you could hoist someone’s tuchus onto before giving it to them good. I think an old metal contraption would be all kinds of romantic, unless there was a clothed elevator operator watching every second of your coitus. Although, if Courtney Bartnett’s Elevator Operator was playing it might be excusable, if not adding to the experience.

So if you managed to survive that whole insufferable entry, here’s a reward. If you’ve never played the 1983 game Elevator Action it’s a total treat.

Now don’t say I never give you anything.


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