I work in an elevator, and I push people’s buttons for a living.
It’s my duty and I perform my responsibilities well.
At times, I’ll press the button requested for a wrong floor. They’ll get off and get back on, recognizing the unfamiliar surroundings. They’ll get agitated. They’ll feel confused. But they’ll quickly get their wits together and request a different floor. I remember, I push the buttons. Not them. I’ll exude a laugh and resume pushing buttons.
I do this for a living, patiently pushing buttons.
A few instances involve pets. I’ve had passengers with overzealous canines. Yes, they’re on a leash, but the residential elevator cab is only 4x4. I get slobbered on. But I gradually dry off within the next 45 minutes. Exotic pets, like Cocoa the anaconda, hardly phase me. Too many rarities have graced my elevator floor.
I remind myself, “This too shall pass.”
It takes under 30 seconds to travel from the ground floor to any upper floor without interruptions. Fortunately, the elevators in the building in which I currently operate are equipped with high-tech mechanisms. I’ve had similar jobs in the past where the elevators were rudimentary, making each transport feel like a lifetime in certain instances.
I remember I push the buttons.
Other times, I get involved in unpaid therapy sessions, where my passengers unburden their troubles on the next old soul. I empathize. Some problems are too impossible. I play a song in my head—on repeat.
Recently, a passenger and I got stuck due to a faulty circuit. I pressed the Help button. As we waited for assistance over the next hour, he perfectly played the role of Super Complainer. I complained along with him. It takes two to be merry.
In the elevator, I’m in charge. I love my job. I push the buttons.