Friday, April 08, 2011

Sometimes You Gotta Take the Elevator Just to Reach the First Floor

It’s happened again, good readers - I’ve closed out another tired notebook of scribbled gobbledigook.  In doing so, I always page through all those sheets (or maybe sheet through the pages, it depends on which direction the bus is headed) to see what I’ve written, and make sure that anything that’s worth saving gets saved and anything worth posting has been posted.  In so doing (changed it up on ya din’t I) I re-acquainted myself with the following bit of… hell, I’ll call it writing.  It’s one of those items I just didn’t have the heart to discard, that seemed worth sharing, but that I resisted posting.  It is a true event, and one that I revive in my mind quite frequently.  Maybe by giving it this platform I can let it move on.  In my inner heart - not the regular outside heart, but the one inside the regular one - I really can’t get over it.  I guess I held off putting it up here because it felt like too much, but you can handle it, can’t you?  Better than I can, and better you than me.  See, I’m still dithering around trying to deal with it.  I just ought to hit “submit” and be done with it.  I ought to do a lot of things, and this is one of those essays that staples that very message to the polished tip of a sharp-toed boot and kicks me in the ass with it.  So, um, enjoy?

People don’t often visit the building where I work.  It’s in an area full of fancier buildings with panoramic meeting spaces and those watchucallem amenities.  My building’s fine and I’m happy to be working there, but it’s not exactly warm and welcoming.  Everything is clean; you’d be treated respectfully if you came to visit - you just wouldn’t be likely to drop by without a damn good reason.

This is only made more true by the nature of our business.  Most of our staff does enforcement or adjudication.  They keep pretty busy with the complaining witnesses and foils and shills and such.  The members of the public who are brought in to assist with the work, or to be its subject, are not typically a very cheerful bunch.

Then there’s the tenants.  Most of them are small-scale shops and they just don’t account for much of anything from the perspective of the casual observer.  But our biggest tenant is a well-known social support non-profit organization.  They help with job training, immigration, housing, health, and basic sustenance.  I’ve seen a lot of people hit the elevator button for their first floor offices (yes, you need the elevator to reach floor 1 in my building), and I can literally smell the stress on them.  Young women alone with masks of braveness on fragile faces; old men with bundles of ratty paperwork clutched to their chests - and families.  The families are the ones that really get to me.  I’ll give you an example.  You can thank me later.

One early December morning I got on the lift and held the door for a somber-looking man.  I’d put him a bit younger than I in years, but his face was aged and hard, and he looked like he had seen tough times and plenty of them.  He was simply dressed in very clean blue jeans, an ironed work shirt, and a light jacket.  It was coming on winter, and getting cold.

In turn, he held the door for his wife and their son.  She, like her husband, seemed a little older than her years, had dressed simply, modestly and neatly, and did not smile.  Both had olive skin and dark hair.

The boy was eight, maybe.  His polo shirt was very white and his chinos were pressed.  His hair, a little bushy, was combed with care, and he was excruciatingly well-behaved.  He was the last to come onto the elevator, smiling as he thanked his father for holding the door for him.  He promptly took an appropriate position near his mother and asked, “What floor are we going to?” His voice was clear and high and filled with light.  His finger hovered near the bank of buttons on the carpeted wall, ready to press if given direction and permission.

His parents didn’t answer him directly; they conferred in rapid mumbled Spanish, to which the boy listened attentively.  After a brief exchange, dad pushed the “1” button.  I had figured as much.

The car started moving.  The boy cheerfully, guilelessly, asked his parents, “After we’re done, can we go and get something for breakfast?  Please?  I’m so hungry!” Mom and dad looked sharply at each other but remained silent.  The boy was still smiling at them expectantly when the doors opened to let them out again after the briefest possible ride.

The doors closed; I continued up alone.  The vacancy in the cab was suffocating.  I had four floors to put them behind me, but that was not nearly enough. 

I’m glad I got that off my chest and onto yours.  What’s left in that notebook is silly goofy crap, and easy to accommodate now that we’ve all been through this together.  I’m ready for something diverting.  Let’s see if anything turns up.  Till then, don’t forsake the old when you unwrap the new.... and when you sit down to have breakfast, do please try to appreciate it.