No 2: ELEVATOR RIDE

PHOTO BY LUCY BIRTWISTLE

LUCY BIRTWISTLE

Three strangers—me and two dudes—stepped into our dorm’s elevator one after another at six twenty-something on Sunday night. The first guy pressed 8, then I pressed 7, then the other guy pressed 11. First Guy continued scrolling through his phone, and Other Guy pulled his out and began to do the same.

I thought about the sheer insignificance of this moment, how nothing about this would carry any significance within the greater scheme of my life, how this would almost undoubtedly not matter at all unless the elevator happened to get stuck and then we’d all inevitably bond or the elevator fell and then we’d all be dead or maybe just injured if we were lucky.

But those things didn’t happen, of course, and so for those thirty-some seconds I relished the beautiful state of insignificance we were all suspended in, all of us in that elevator. I relished life’s patience. 

As I stepped out of the elevator (first to go, floor 7), I saw out of the corner of my eye that Other Guy was wearing Roots sweatpants. Was he Canadian, or just a poser? I reminisced on his face, the details of which were hazy due to my limited understanding of them. I’d thought he looked like kind of a douchebag—was he really, or did he just look like one?