Saturday, April 15, 2006

Let's Talk About Elevators, Baby

GAAH. Once upon a time there was a girl named Lyssa who worked on the 9th floor of a certain building on 51st between Broadway and 7th. On the second floor of this building was a certain dancewear shop, only reachable through the main office lobby on 51st. Every day, in the morning, when she was feeling fresh and generous, she would just smile and nod at the idiots [DANCERS, mind you] who would ride the elevator up ONE FLOOR to the dance shop, before she continued up in the elevator to the 9th floor.

However! The end of the day always arrived with a headache and an urgent need for a nap and a Lexapro [and maybe a Vicodin], so the quickest way down in the elevator, the best. One particularly sullen evening, the clock had no sooner struck 5:30 than Lyssa was out the door of the loud, sweltering, smelly, carpeted, musical-theatre-ppl-infested office and into the elevator. New Pornographers blared satisfyingly into the headphones; she tapped her foot with the beat and with intolerable impatience, come on, come on; the elevator beeped down the floors oh so slowly: 7, 6, 5... AND THEN (oh, she was so close!), the elevator came to a thumping halt on floor #2, the door opened, and a crowd of about 15 people--loud, skinny, northface-wearing, bleached-blonde, gum smacking, CLUELESS TOURIST DANCERS smashed themselves into the elevator, with absolutely NO regard for the quiet, angry 4'10" passenger on her way home from work. O.M.G. OMG. omg omg omg. SHUT UP, GET OUT, TAKE THE DAMN STAIRS YOU LAZY FUCKERS.

That is all. Please tip your waiters.



Blogger Jack said...

great to see this blog resuscitated!

5:58 PM  
Blogger Jack said...

so since you haven't posted anything for a year, can I take back my last comment?

8:06 PM  

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