Long live the stairwell! The last refuge of the disenchanted.





There’s a qualification I should make in regards to my meme.


Sometimes is a misnomer because I really mean most of the time. I dread my work elevators.


I hate them. If I’m the first person in an elevator, I wait tersely, with baited breath, impatiently, for the door to miraculously close before anyone runs in to “join” me. If this happens (as it frequently does, usually announced by the clamping of rushing soles), my heart drops and I exhale in quiet disappointment. I don’t mind elevators if I’m the sole rider; in fact, they are quite fun. The suspense that sorta accompanies each micro-ride where you wonder if this will be the one where the cable breaks or the car becomes stuck and you happened to be rushing to find a bathroom on another floor. Lots of bad shit happens on elevators, the least of which is having to share those few quiet moments with other people who insist on making humorous quips or mundane small talk about how Monday sucks or how wonderful Friday is(!!!!!!!!). Same banal BS over and over and over and I can’t take it and I avoid elevators. I don’t like elevators when people climb aboard with their reprehensible alienating Blackberries and I hate the inglorious suicidal banter.


People are sufficiently annoying without having to be cooped up into rectangular coffins suspended stories in the sky with them. I realize that my dislike of people is something that must be worked through for the sake of coexistence and material survival, but there are situations where I do call the shots. There are moments I can assert my free will and choose a path with less people. Like stairwells. Very few people take the stairs and they are an awesome place to descend or ascend the corporate structure without the ingratiating pseudo-friendly garbage that is sure to greet you on elevators.


In the stairwell, you can fart freely. You can’t do that on an elevator. Even when you’re alone, you can’t fart for it may be a stinker and the most embarrassing thing would be for the odiferous flatulence to fill the small cart as a band of pretty worker bees climb in and the guilty party (obviously) retreats quietly into the corner.


I take the stairs. I avoid the elevator.


This is emblematic of my life. I’m a stairwell person. This is where we flock to escape the herds who cluster in tight, obnoxious areas. Elevators, cities, it’s all the same thing.