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A dozen lights shine back at me.
This cannot be happening.
I’m tempted to jump out of the car and into another one, but I brush away the idea. I’m cutting it close as it is. Tardiness isn’t my trademark.
The ride up to the nineteenth floor is a slow punishment. People don’t seem to be in a rush to get off, which only delays the door closing again. After the third floor, I can’t take it anymore. I start pressing the buttons on the dashboard with urgency as a wave of people step off the elevator.
Come on. Close!
A few people grumble behind me, but I ignore them.
I check my watch.
Fuck.
I’m ten minutes late.
Not good!
When we hit the eighteenth floor, I’m almost giddy with joy.
My turn next.
Two people exit together, taking their sweet old time, chatting like they’re sitting at a coffee shop, catching up.
Really?
Impatient, I press the button like a maniac to force the doors to close.
“It doesn’t make much of a difference if you keep doing that,” a deep voice says from behind me.
“I’m severely late,” I say, jabbing the button some more.
“The elevator is on a timer.” The man’s retort is swift. “It’s pre-programmed.”
“This makes a difference.”
“It really doesn’t.”
“Well, thank you for your expert opinion, Mr. Elevator Mechanic, but you’re not the boss of me.”
“If I were, you’d be in trouble.”
Why does that sound like a tempting promise?
I don’t grant him a glance, but I dart my eyes to the right to confirm it’s just the two of us.
Tough luck, buddy.
I jab the button with a vengeance.
Finally, the doors close.
Hallelujah!
Take that, Mr. Know It All.
I’m already in the end zone, close to scoring a touchdown. I even do a stadium wave in my head, with the obligatory sportscaster’s voice echoing loud, ‘Gooooooo Buchanan!’
