Elevator Low and Rydell High

Last night was the last Movie in the Park in Grant Park for the season, and they were showing "Grease." We had a group of six girls there, spread across three blankets, and good food and many bottles of wine for the occasion.

The crowds filled the park, covering every square inch of grass possible, facing the enormous drive-in-style screen. The sound was good, and people actually quieted during most of the dialogue to let everyone hear the movie that has been a girl's night staple since 1978. The musical parts, however, became a virtual sing-a-long and it was just hilarious hearing thousands sing about "Summer Lovin'" and "Grease Lightning." There were even a few in shiny pink satin Pink Ladies jackets and bobby socks. Well done, ladies!

Even before I made it to the park to meet Jill, I had to bring the preparations. I had a blanket in my office for the occasion, and left in such a hurry that I got down to the lobby floor and remembered it, and went back up to grab it. Boarding the elevator for the second time, I pushed the lower level lobby button, and watched the doors close.

Two others boarded on lower floors (my office is up on 27) and then we made it to the express portion of the ride where we zoomed from the 19th floor down to the lobby. Inevitably, my ears popped.

This time, however, when the elevator car passed the lobby, it jerked, bounced, and went quiet. We hung there. We were literally suspended between the two floors. Granted, we were only one (and a half!?) floors off the ground, but I couldn't help but envision a Bourne Identity-style crash to the ground, with someone inside the elevator shaft standing atop the car hanging on to the steel cables.

Or, I couldn't help but think of the guy in New York who was caught in an elevator on the weekend for 41 hours. The link shows a time-elapsed video of his ordeal. I didn't want to be THAT guy.

We used the emergency call button to talk to the lobby, and had to yell in order for them to hear us. That was a ridiculous scene—three people standing in a tiny box, yelling at the wall. If only someone could see us now.

After we identified the elevator car we were in, they urged us to wait. We did. About five minutes passed, and I felt as if we were moving. The mind does weird things, especially as one starts to panic, so I wasn't sure if I was inventing the movement or if we were really sliding downward.

We must have been sinking that last 1/2 floor (10 feet?), because all of a sudden, the doors slid open and we were there. In the lower level, safely.

Relieved, we poured out and went on our way. It had crossed my mind that I had snatched some candy from our vending machine, so that could tide me over. And, I had the blanket and a book, so I could at least be cozy and occupied.

But, I did realize that I was leaving to go buy the wine for the movie in the park, so I didn't yet have that on my person. The cups and the corkscrew? Yep, had those. Maybe we could have pulled a MacGuyver with those and gotten ourselves free?

Luckily we didn't have to, and I made it to the park in time to see Danny and Sandy frolicking on the beach.

Sidenote/tangent: did anyone else realize, as you watch Grease as an adult, that a) there are a lot of subtle sexual innuendos in the movie that went right over my head as a pre-teen, and b) Danny and Sandy and all the T-Birds and Pink Ladies look WAY older than high schoolers. They look more like they're 30. I'm just pointing it out.

Grease is the word! (for an elevator cable, too?)

Pump Up the Volume

While riding in the elevator at work today, I couldn't help but notice (she ensured that everyone did) this girl in there with us. She had on her iPod, with the infamous white earbud headphones, and the volume must have been turned WAY up.

She was silently bopping along to the music, and by the 27th floor, I was tapping my foot too. Since I could not only hear the music, but I could also easily identify the song and even which verse was playing. Heck, I could hear every word with clarity of enunciation that would make a speech therapist proud.

Made me think, though, that we're going to be one annoyingly hard-of-hearing generation by the time we are our grandparents' age. Deaf, quite possibly, as a whole slew of iPod-addicted people.

I can almost hear the thunderous conversations at Thanksgiving now...

"HONEY, PLEASE PASS THE MASHED POTATOES! NO, NOT THE SMASHED TOMATOES!" and "CHILD, WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY? YOU WANT THE TURKEY? OR THE BEEF JERKY?"

Yeah. Won't THAT be fun?

(And, yes, I realize that no one outside of Alabama's state lines serves beef jerky on Thanksgiving, and I've never even heard of smashed tomatoes, but they rhymed. Pipe down now, wouldja?)

Love in an Elevator

Elevator etiquette, or lack thereof, is a big part of an urban dweller's life. I live in a 26-story high-rise building, on the 13th floor. I work in a 36-story high rise building, on the 27th floor. My boyfriend lives in a 20-story high-rise building, on the 15th floor.

Clearly I spend a LOT of time in elevators each day. I consider this my informal training at assessing the elevator behaviors I observe. I'm practically an expert. Here are my observations, to date:

• Old people not only like to talk to you in the elevators, they EXPECT it. Don't even think about ignoring them, or mumbling an answer, or you're bound to get a lecture on manners or e·nun·ci·a·tion.


• The younger generation is so utterly uncomfortable on elevators that they will do ANYTHING to avoid looking at each other. They will pick at their fingernails, pretend to do stuff on their phone (despite the widely held knowledge that phones don't work on an elevator), adjust their iPod or play with their hair. Anything to avoid having to look at you, much less exchange words.


• Business people judge one another while confined in this airless space. They assess suits, overcoats, hats, handbags, body odors, and (since most are staring at their feet), shoes.


• Don't you often wish you could hear a stranger's thoughts while standing within arm's length of them for 15 floors. I'm fairly certain sometimes it would include things like, "She smells like vodka, and it is 2 pm on a Sunday." or "I can't believe she's leaving the house to do laundry wearing her slippers. Has she no respect for herself?" or "Man, she's really tall. Is she wearing really high heels? Nope. Just a giant." or the like.


• The elderly women in my elevator at home like to talk to me, and I have myself convinced it is because I remind them of their granddaughter, daughter-in-law, childhood friend, or just maybe, themself at 30 years old. Conversation with these ladies is inevitable, and usually begins with something sweet like, "I do declare! I believe I've lived in this building longer than you've been alive!" She's probably right. Incidentally, there are far more old ladies in my buidling than old men. I suspect this was where the old bitties moved after the death of their loving husbands. Sad, but true.


• Don't shower in your cologne or perfume. It ruins the morning for the rest of us. And, if I wanted to smell like Chanel No. 5, I'd wear it. Or rub up against a rich granny on the bus.


• There is much debate about the protocol for the door holding move. It is my belief that if someone is later to arrive to the bank of elevators, it is my friendly obligation/favor to hold the door for them. If I can hear them hurrying, scrambling and shuffling to get to the open elevator, it would just be obnoxious to let it slide closed in their face.


• Others I've discussed this with feel quite the opposite—that if someone isn't on, they're not on. Let it close. They can wait, rather than keeping the passengers waiting. That is just a tad bit cold and selfish for me, and when I'm the one hurrying for the door, I know that I appreciate the moment of fleeting kindness by a random stranger. Especially since as soon as we board, we'll ignore each other once again.

All in all, riding in an elevator is a strange cultural situation, a paradox of close proximity and distanced behavior, that results in some strange observations of humanity.

When in doubt, say hello, look each other in the eye, and talk about the weather. It gets 'em every time. And maybe next time you're holding two loaded bags of groceries, they'll kick out their leg or risk a limb to hold the door for you.

They HAVE been living/working in that building longer than you've been alive, you know.

Nowhere to Look

Why is it that elevators render people, who in normal circumstances are talkative and outgoing, totally mute and self-conscious?

I board a minimum of 2 elevators a day—one at home and one at work. I've noticed this more at home:

People in the younger generations are so utterly, ridiculously, awkwardly afraid you'll speak to them while in the elevator together, that they'll do practically anything to avoid...

the direct eye contact.

The elderly in my building are quite the opposite—they get in, and immediately want to know how I am, how long I've lived in the building (to which they always squeal, "I've lived here longer than you've been alive!"), what I do for a living, where's my boyfriend and how much money I make.

Seriously, these ladies are in serious need of a granddaughter visit.

Anyway, today I boarded the elevator at home with another young woman from my floor. She lives 2 doors down from me. She seems normal. She was going for a run, and I was going out to run errands (I don't run unless I'm being chased). I remarked about the new gym equipment downstairs, and you would have thought I'd asked her how much she weighed.

She blanched, and then recovered. Slowly.

She answered the question, but I could tell it took everything in her power not to say to me, "why are you talking to me?"

After the painful awkward 'where do I put my eyes now?' moments were over, we just rode in silence.

How dare I try to strike up a conversation with someone that shares my hallway, eats, lives and sleeps just 20 feet from my home?

What nerve I have. Clearly.