What really bugs me is the way people behave in elevators. It’s like an alternate universe where they lose all understanding of how to function properly in a crowded society. They go to extremes, either imposing on your personal space with a nervous “it’s cold out there huh?” or sidestep into a corner and stare at the ceiling so you wouldn’t get any inkling to strike up a conversation.
I’ve noticed that people who are snobs in the general society take it up a notch in elevators just so you wouldn’t get any funny ideas that since you happen to be in tight quarters for a minute together you are in any way equal to the likes of them. I notice a great deal of that elevator snobbery going on in Adrian’s building. The residents are beings who fancy themselves New Yorkers but often hail from the suburbs of Connecticut. They always live in Manhattan and see the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn and Staten Island as distant lands made to accommodate common trash, human and otherwise. They generally have no idea that you can’t buy the privilege of being a real New Yorker with a doorman and a big crystal chandelier in the lobby. You can’t get authentic New York Flavor in Midtown like you can in the Queens, Brooklyn or Bronx and it’s free too!
There’s this one girl from the 12th floor who gives off bitch fumes from every cell of her body. The effect is so overwhelming it’s enough to make you lose all faith in the inherent goodness of people. Maybe she can smell Queens on me and can’t help being disgusted. I can see that to her all people are like different foods on the same plate that can’t touch each other or her head might explode. The problem is this city is like a big bowl of stew with mystery ingredients all floating and mixing together, no one knows what the recipe is or where the hell it came from. And I know that she feels bad that I don’t live in her fancy building but I feel bad for her that she does. Funny how that works.
I get the joy of NYC from other things than carpeted hallways in my building. I get a little bit from dreaming about winning the lotto with the Pakistani owner of the corner bodega. And a little bit from Guido Johhny over at the 7-11 who hurls his orange body towards the door every time he spies a frequent female customer with an enthusiastic, “EY THERE SHE IS! Looking beautiful! Gorgeous! Where ya been eh?!” And sometimes if I’m lucky Jose at the deli might give me a big cookie on the house. It’s a twisted world where such things are free but some people pay to avoid them. How so very sad for them.