- pretty much slept through philosophy classes in college and
- watch so much television that I have legitimate cause to fear one day being able to afford a Craftmatic® Adjustable Bed and a giant, wall-mounted flat screen tv, dropping off the social grid altogether and eventually being discovered fused to the mattress, buried in a pile of empty saltine boxes, I am guessing that it was Dr. Phil.
Anyway.
I spend a lot of time in a multi-floored building that houses numerous doctors' offices - mostly those of pediatricians and psychiatrists. The elevators are constantly populated with very young children who get glassy-eyed with delight when they step on and see floor buttons, (intended for easy access by riders who are in wheelchairs) at their own eye levels. Presumably they are the patients of the former, as they have not been on the planet long enough to have sought the attention of the latter. One of the things that fascinates me about riding up and down in their company is their unwavering obsession with depressing those buttons.
They seem fearless and driven, pounding away at the control panel with abandon, often openly encouraged by their parents, who then smile wanly at other adults on board as if to say, "I'm sorry, but little Madison is so cute and bright that we must not stifle her intellectual curiosity, must we. It takes a village to indulge my child, after all."
Most of the other riders are accommodating and faux-genial, or at the least silent witnesses. I like to imagine their interior monologues. "Good luck establishing any boundaries with Madison ten years from now, lady. Start saving bail money." I sulk in a corner, somewhere between annoyance and awe.
At Fictitious Madison's age, I was petrified of elevators. I entered them, but not voluntarily. I didn't fight it because I was a polite, quiet child who trusted that grownups knew what they were doing, and knew that the two who raised me would keep me safe.
But I didn't enjoy being in what amounted to me to be metal rooms that left their moorings and rumbled up and down the insides of buildings. It felt grossly abnormal, only slightly less creepy than being on subway trains that travel underwater. (And I often wondered if whoever tiled the Holland Tunnel in that caterpillar guts-green shade did it deliberately, to mimic the bottom of a dirty swimming pool, so that when the murky Hudson River came gushing through some undiscovered crack in the wall, I would drown more peacefully. I kept my eyes closed every time I had to ride through it as a kid. The only reason I haven't as an adult is that you don't hit as many cars if you keep your eyes open while driving.)
I have come to terms with my irrational fears, but I don't know how today's toddlers can be so cavalier about crossing through the Flapping Portal to Claustrophobia. And I resent their prolonging my ride by making me stop at virtually every floor while they wait for more unwitting victims to enter.
I forget what point I was trying to make. Oh. Now I remember. At the other end of this strange Bell curve of ridership is the adult version of the button-banger -- the Supreme High Ruler of the Elevator. Like the pediatric versions, it comes in both male and female, and is characterized by an odd obsession with blocking access to the control panel, even when there is just one other rider in the box. The S.H.R.E. pastes his or her abdomen against it, loudly braying "FLOOR?" at everyone who gets on.
The S.H.R.E. is not to be confused with a normal, courteous passenger, the one who depresses floor buttons on behalf of riders with armloads of parcels and tote bags, a parent trying to manage a stroller or one of those infant-toting bucket things, or riders who are disabled and dealing with canes, walkers or wheelchairs.
Oh, no, indeed. The S.H.R.E. is textbook passive/aggressive and controlling, starting with his/her physically limiting access to the buttons and establishing a barrier that, if breached, produces loud sighs and hisses emitted through pursed lips. Just try responding with, "Thanks, I can push it myself," or "None of your effing business," or worse, leaning toward the S.H.R.E., slipping your unwanted arm in there like a plumbing snake and hitting your desired button without permission. You'll see what sort of reception you get, especially if you don't shower the S.H.R.E. with verbal expressions of gratitude for denying you your freedom of choice.
So. I have a theory that the enthusiastic tots who must, absolutely must push all the floor buttons and turn tolerable elevator rides into inefficient pit stops in which the captive passengers stare glumly out into empty office building hallways -- or dive frantically to commandeer the "Door Open" button at the sound of a faraway voice calling, "Hooooooooooooolllld that, pleeeeease?" -- grow up to become Supreme High Rulers of the Elevator. Not that I want one, but I bet some bureaucrat down at Disneyland-on-the-Potomac would give me a federal grant to spend twenty years attempting to prove it.
And I will go one step further to posit this: The S.H.R.E.s are also the people who smile primly and hold the door of the public building open for you, when you are at least half a parking lot away, forcing you to start sprinting to take advantage of their self-styled goodwill or suffer momentary pangs of guilt for walking at your preferred pace, failing to honor their benevolence. When I am on the receiving end of The Prolonged Door-Hold, I just pretend I'm in the Holland Tunnel and keep my eyes closed, or stare off into space, as if transfixed by the parking lot surveillance cameras. Eventually they give up.
I know. If I don't like the heat, I should take the fire exit stairs. Shut up. You can't make me.
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