The hotel elevator was long, designed for uniformed men and women to roll in a gurney and wheel out temporary residents who had partied too hard.
I sat in the far corner and stared at people’s faces as they watched digital representations of each floor change overhead. It seemed impossible to ignore the precision in which I was belting out Sia lyrics, but they managed. They were not interested in being my friend.
It wasn’t that I was trying to be weird, but I was tired and bored and didn’t have anything else to do, at that particular time in my life.
When people pulled their suitcases, dry cleaning, manicured dogs or drug paraphanalia from the lift, leaving me sprawled out on the ceramic tiled floor, I would stare up at the ceiling and wonder if I could escape through a small trap door like they do in so many movies I wished I was in.
The elevator walls smelled like bleach, which reminded me of a Death Cab for Cutie song that used to make a girl I was in love with cry.
To amaze women in pant suits, I would put my arm out, concentrate very hard and pretend to be using my newly acquired Jedi skills to open the door. One time a girl in a scarf, carrying a discman giggled and said, “The force is strong with this one,” as she walked out of my life.
I like girls in scarves.
Posted via email from Jon Ray
