I work in an office building that has six floors. It is not very tall, although widthwise it extends for about an entire city block.
Within the confines of the fine city of Los Angeles it is not uncommon to find yourself sharing the office building with a production company. For those of you who are star struck it is not necessarily all that exciting, you don’t see that many stars come floating through. In fact many times you don’t see anyone that you would recognize from anywhere other than they haunt the same building you do.
And in this particular building I am aware of at least four different production companies. The problem that I have is that at least one of them has offices on the 3rd and 4th floors. I am located on the sixth floor.
Invariably I have needs that require my leaving my comfy cube for the outside world necessitating my sharing the elevator with these people. For the most part I haven’t any problem with them. The issue is this. Because they are not all located on one floor they frequently need to go between 3 and 4.
Instead of taking the stairs up or down one flight they ride the elevator. I understand that the pack of cigarettes they carry are heavy and that their purses would make Hercules cry, but nonetheless it irks me to have to stop for one floor when they could have just walked.
Furthermore, they seem to travel in pairs but they hardly ever exit the same floor. So what happens is that one gets off the elevator and tries to finish the conversation they had on the short ride. But they think that it is cool to hold the door while they finish their thoughts. As if I care what they are talking about and have all the time in the world to give up for them.
Today I asked a guy to get off or end the conversation. I was polite and what did I receive? A nasty retort, at which point in time “high school Jack” reappeared and I asserted my manhood by offering to help him leave the elevator head first. Not very chivalrous of me, but I felt better.
And I suppose that he must have believed that I was capable of doing so because he left without saying another word. A small victory in the battle for elevator etiquette. Now if I can just stop the smokers from polluting the elevator with that stench I’ll be a happy man.