It might be the one in your office, or the one at your gym. It could be the one at your favourite mall, or at your new suburban high-rise residence. Wherever you go, an elevator bank is like the pond in the food chain. Sooner or later, everybody comes down for something. Sooner or later, everybody rubs shoulders and jockeys for a place up front. Your journey in the lift comprises a random selection of feelings and sensations from the world around you, compressed into a 4x4 space, suspended in time. It’s your world in a microcosm.
It's funny when complete strangers wait for the elevator. They stand around, some against walls, some against closed doors, and some against nothing at all. Some lean on their left legs first, switch to their right, and some do just the opposite. Their hands fidget with the straps of their bags or satchels, their ties, and most of all, their cellphones. But it's the eyes that tell a story. Some people stare at nothing at all, without seeming to try, whilst some do it with studied effort. Some stare right through you, and are more than willing to meet your gaze, whilst some just want a closer look at your shirt or, perhaps, an innocently revealed bra strap. Then there's the odd observer who will scrutinise every aspect of your appearance, and practically invite a challenging stare. Some, like me, can never meet the gaze of perfect strangers. There must be a reason for it. Happily, I don't know it.
The awkward silence, the restless foot scuffing, the conjunctive coughing, it all contrives to paint a remarkably vivid portrait of human nature. This is a random cross-section of people with independent dependents and livelihoods, who have definitive purposes only in the purview of their own lives. They're coming from somewhere, and they're going elsewhere. In order to get there, they need to take the elevator. They co-exist without interaction, and draw the fine line in that distinction.
The one exception is the liftman. I'm going to put that in capitals. The Liftman is the Moment's saviour, which is the rarest type there is. He receives his new batch of immigrants with an enviable nonchalance and a casual interest born of indifference. He bridges the divide, with a look steeped in mild fascination, and rooted in impersonalism. An instant magnetic pole for everyone's divided attentions.
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