The Elevator by Arjun Srivatsa

I had been working at the company for six long and productive years. I was known as the Ironman in my office, yet year after year people who I was obviously better than got raises and promotions. But I wasn’t complaining. I liked getting just the exact amount of respect as I deserved, and sometimes less. It was what drove me to come back. But still, you have to wonder how much respect you could get if you tried.

I walked into the cold, damp elevator and hit the button for the 42^nd floor, as I do every morning. It wasn’t the usual elevator; today I decided to mix things up. I especially like the elevators in my building more than usual ones because the buttons are heat sensitive, so I would rub my hands together and slowly and carefully ease my finger towards the button to try to activate it without touching it. However, this practice is entertaining only when in the elevator with certain people; meaning people who can stand watching a grown man try a dorky trick without looking at him like he’s psychotic. The other day I stood in the elevator trying the gag five times before the annoyed lady behind me pushed my trembling finger away and pressed the button for her floor. Also, when pressed, the buttons in the elevator turn bright green, which takes me back to the old Sears Roebuck store my mother would take my sister and me during the Christmas shopping frenzy. Just the sight of those little green squares instantly reminds me of making lists for Santa, picking out a flannel for dad in a color that I hadn’t already given to him, and watching the dressed up cashiers franticly ring items up, take the money, give back the change and end every sale with “Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!” I swear there is nobody else on God’s green earth that hates Christmas more than cashiers at department stores. One time I saw some of the ladies taking their cigarette brakes, mumbling amongst themselves about how if they had to ring up one more red and green sweater they’d flip. Hell, even the Grinch would look at them and say “Lighten up, it’s Christmas!”

As I stood in the elevator waiting the usual three minutes it took to climb up to my floor, hands in my pockets, whistling the harmony to the cover of “Tiny Dancer” that was playing through the small brown speaker, I noticed something strange about one of the buttons. Floor 68. Or, as I saw it, floor o3. The numbers on the button had been severely worn down. It seemed as if this was the most popular floor in the building; as if everyone who was working at the company either wanted to or was forced to go there. It was the only button like this, which made me curious, and a little jealous. I had never been to this floor. Why? My company owned all the floors from 40 to 75, and the 60’s were known as the filler floors, where countless drones sat at cubicles doing the same routine everyday. So what’s so special about 68? What if it’s the cool floor?! You know, how there’s always one staff of workers that are seen as the cool guys, and how everyone visits them and jokes with them and envies them. So I said “Fuck it” and I rubbed my hands and “pressed” the button (if only more people would try the heat sensitive trick then the button would not have worn down). I waited as the elevator slowly climbed up. When the elevator reached 42 I repeatedly hit the “Close Door” button to avoid any awkwardness. Yet me being the one guy who can’t escape awkwardness the door opened and I saw Bonnie at the receptionist desk. She said, “Wait, where you off to?” and I responded under my breath, “The Cool Kids”.

As the ride slowed down due to my uncontrollable excitement I thought of the possibilities of what I would find. Obviously there’s something important on this floor. I wonder what the prototypical worker on the 68^th floor would look like. 45. The girls are probably cute, but at the same time they almost certainly had hot male counterparts. 50. Pretty people always stick together, and I’m not pretty enough, which is one of the many things I will never forgive my parents for. 55. The guys are perhaps charming, romantic and buff. 60. The girls are most likely cute, super cute and hella cute. 65. I heard about the existence of the cool floor but never actually wanted to go up there on account of it was the popular thing to do and I pride myself on being as unpopular as possible. Finally, 68. I walked in and rushed to receptionist.

“Hey,” I started, “why is this floor so popular?”

“Pardon?” she asked.

“I mean, I work on the 42^nd floor and I noticed the button was worn down and…”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, what I’m trying to ask is what’s on this floor?”

“Well, this is where we handle promotions,”

“Oh, okay.” I started to walk away.

“Wait,” she said “Are you by chance Arjun Srivatsa from the 42^nd floor?”

“Um, yes.”

“Your manager has been talking about you; we’ve been hearing a lot of good things”

“Really?”

“Have a seat; we’ll be with you shortly.”

And that’s how I accidentally doubled my income.