That's What You Think: Who's Going Up?

Published 01.22.02 in The Heights, Boston College


By Annie Barrett


For those of you man and woman enough to take the stairs despite the wet, cold weather (a process which inevitably secretes a noted “icy drip,” similar to previously discussed “stair sweat” but much more gross), that’s terrific. Eww, she said “secretes.”

But for the rest of us, choosing the comforts of the trusty, warm (wait—make that unbearably slow and even more frigid than outdoors) parking garage elevator over braving the snowy steps comes at a high price: severe elevator awkwardness (SEA).

It’s not that we have to live like this—staring blankly at people whose company we might otherwise enjoy, competing with every other rider for “Most Silent” signification, pretending our watch or something in our bag just became REALLY interesting.

That’s so bogus. We shouldn’t do that.

But we do. Wow, this is pretty anti-climactic. What ever will she spout out next?

So instead of preaching about how we can improve ourselves and society, let’s go into agonizing detail of the SEA torture and make fun of ourselves.

You walk into the elevator, strung out from the road, and you feel the eyes upon you as you’re shakin’ off the cold … oh wait, that’s what Bob Seger does in “Turn the Page.” Five points (redeemable at your local TWYT snack shop) for you if you called that yourself. Why doesn’t anyone listen to Bob Seger anymore? Why am I actually still talking about Bob Seger in the student newspaper? Why does anyone let me write anything, ever? What’s wrong with the world at large?

Wow, stop. But we’ve got tonight, babe. Why don’t you stay?

No. Anyway, so you’re standing in the parking garage elevator. No, hold on. You wait five years for the elevator, which runs at the rate of approximately one mile per day. While you’re waiting, seven people enter the lobby and press the already-illuminated “up” button. Cool, dude. Now it’ll come! You and your magic touch rule.

You walk in and are promptly smeared against the left wall by someone else’s giant computer case. Then, instead of simply asking you to press their buttons (which sounds unnecessarily kinky, but in a good way), your fellow riders obnoxiously lunge across the entire elevator to triumphantly attack their respective buttons.

If you're the one right near the buttons, it’s almost offensive not to be asked to perform such a menial task. “Seven, please” is admittedly a complex assignment but should probably be manageable, considering we all graduated first grade.

But if you do press someone else’s button, the SEA only intensifies. Here, take a look.

Rider: Seven, please.

You: Sure. (Press correct button, look straight down to avoid eye contact.) Don’t say thank you. It’s not necessary. Please, don’t.

Rider: Thanks! I really don’t get why I should have to say thank you. She, like, didn’t do anything. I hate life.

You: No problem! Wait, I didn’t do anything. Oh God, I want to die.

Suicidal thoughts aside, thanking people for really insignificant tasks isn’t the worst part of the SEA situation. The general “I can’t look at anyone or say anything or else I’ll die” vibe pervades and defines the SEA. Even friends who were chatting loudly before boarding shut up immediately, thus showing ultimate respect for the elevator’s unspoken rule of extreme anti-sociability.

The absolute worst is when you’re in the ’vator with one other person and it’s traveling at an even slower (if possible) rate than usual. Probably due to your giant size.

For further elevator enlightenment, look to our catch-all representatives, Burly Man (BM) and Sophisticated Woman (SW)? Below is TWYT’s dutiful transcription of what could have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but clearly wasn’t.

BM: (Smiles sheepishly at SW) Yep, we’re all alone in the elevator and we’re both attractive.

SW: (Smiles back) Oooh, he looks really sensitive and caring. He’s cute, too. I think I love him. We could cook a romantic dinner together and then walk around the Res. Then we’ll get married and live in the ’burbs and have puppies. Well, we won’t like, “have them” by ourselves, but we’ll, like, buy them. And raise them. Kids, too. Lots of kids.

BM: (Shuffles around) Yeah, she’s pretty hot. Nice kicks.

And that only gets us halfway between the first and second floors. The silence will only intensify, and Sophisticated Woman will step off the elevator having envisioned their burial plots side-by-side.

Eww, this column was unusually morbid. Usually it’s just weird. Don’t worry, it’s still really weird. What happened to Greg Johnson?

Next TWYT: Nachos, man.