The Elevator...

7:42 am

I trudge towards the elevator. It was a typical Tuesday. Which is just like the typical Monday, but there are no stupid jokes on Tuesdays. If Satan were going to be a day, he would be Tuesday.

I hit the up button, silently praying that no one else comes while I’m waiting for the elevator. I hate riding in the elevator with other people. I think I’d pay 1,000 dollars to have my own private elevator that followed me wherever I needed to go. I really hate when people I don’t know try to make awkward conversation with me. Who ever said you need to talk to someone when in a confined space? We’re already in an uncomfortable enough situation. Why are you trying to make it worse? You don’t go to a funeral for your friend’s mother and then mention that you had had an affair with said mother while her father “worked late”, do you? No! You keep that to yourself. This is what you should do with strangers in an elevator. Keep to yourself.

I’m standing there, waiting for the elevator to get to the ground floor. Finally, the number says one and the door starts to open. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone opening the door from the parking garage. Damn it! It’s Larry from Accounting. Larry weighs about a small Shamu, has what looks like an otter carcass for a toupee on his head, always smells like rotten cheese and appears to have last bathed himself when White Snake was still drawing a crowd. But other than that, he’s a very sweet guy. At least he likes to talk so you have to smell his rotten mule breath. Nice touch. Whenever I’m around him, I want to peel all my skin off, dip it in anthrax and throw it at him.

With the quickness of a cheetah (and wisdom of a man) I leap into the elevator and start to rapidly press the five button. While hitting the five button with my right hand, my left hand unconsciously starts hitting the door close button. I feel like Mike Tyson working out on the speed bag. My hands are flailing about, reaching and reacting. This must be what Michael Jordan feels like when he’s in “the zone”.

Finally, the doors begin to close. I’m beginning to break a sweat, but soon, it will all be worthwhile. A little alone time for Brent in the elevator. The doors are shutting, but not as fast as I’d like them to. But then they begin to pick up speed, like a rock rolling downhill. It will only be seconds until the ride is mine! But as they close, I see the look on Larry’s face. It’s a mixture of surprise and dismay. He rears back and pounces forward like Maurice Green off the starter’s block. I've never seen a fat man want something so bad. You would have thought the door was made out of cream cheese! Larry vs. The Door. I’m rooting for The Door like I’ve bet my daughters favorite Barbie on it.

Just as the door is about to close and I am getting ready to do my patented victory “crotch dance”, a chubby hand slides through at the last second. It looks like five Jimmy Dean Pork Sausages connected to the rim of a frying pan. The doors slowly start to retract and reveal my new arch enemy, Larry. Could this day get any worse?

“Hey Brent! Wow, I barely made it! Talk about good luck, me and you getting to ride up together. Man, that weather out there is crazy. I saw this woman today, and she wasn’t driving a car, but it was actually a souped-up shopping cart. I couldn’t believe it! Can you? I was going to yell out the window, ‘Hey baby, why don’t you take a ride on this?’ Do you think I should have done that? That would have been funny, huh Brent? Wow. Talk about good timing, I mean…” Larry pattered on and on, as I slowly started to rip the skin off my lower abdomen.

Ahhh…another beautiful Tuesday. Could life get any better? No way Jose'!

7:43 am