Elevator Shoes
“Those are quite the conversation piece,” I declared as the elevator doors closed.
“What are?” she asked.
“Those. Your shoes.”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“Well, nothing really…if you crush grapes for a living.”
“Oh, come now, they’re not that bad,” she protested.
“They’ve put me off wine,” I retorted.
“That’s just plain rude,” she said, glaring at me.
“The shoes you mean?”
“No! You!”
The muffled arrival chime of the elevator prevented further escalation over the footwear. The woman in fashionably questionable shoes practically stomped off the elevator. In her wake, a bike messenger wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and Lycra shorts entered.
“What’s her problem?” he asked. A firm finger lit up the button for the fourth floor.
“Besides the shoes?”
“Those were some ugly shoes. Couldn’t help but notice.”
“Seems I offended her sensibilities by giving my opinion on them,” I said, smiling.
“I wouldn’t put those shoes on my dog.” He shook his head in disbelief as he spoke
“Thank you. That’s what I’m saying—but that’s a cool shirt.”
“Thanks. Got it dirt cheap, and it’s comfortable.”
“Perfect combination,” I agreed.
Not another word was mentioned regarding clothes. We stared at the floor display as it ticked from two to three to four. As expected the doors peeled open and the messenger hurried off.
“Have a good day,” I said.
“You, too,” he called, waving over his shoulder.
A few minutes and floors later, the elevator became occupied by a woman cradling a terrier in her arm, and a man in a sharply creased three-piece suit, obviously a salesman. The dog seemed very casual about the confines of the elevator, and very well mannered. It’s human transport spoke first.
“Hi.”
“Good afternoon. Cute dog. Just got a haircut, huh?” I asked.
“Yeah. Eleven please. I have a few clients in this building so they bring me their dogs and I pretty them up, then bring them to the office at the end of the day. This here is Zeke.”
“Zeke?” I asked. “Doesn’t sound like a terrier name.”
“I just trim ’em. I don’t name ’em.”
“Fair enough. May I introduce Stan from the ad agency on ten.” The introduction was intentionally tinged with smarminess. The groomer calmly petted the dog.
“Um, hello, Stan,” she said.
“Hello. Say, I bet you could use a good slogan for your business,” he abruptly offered.
“Actually, I—”
Stan cut her off, beaming, intensely proud of his quick imagination.
“How about ‘Doin’ it doggystyle!’” he quipped, making cheesy six-guns with his hands and pointing them at the dog. “Whadya’ think?”
The uneasy silence only lasted a second.
“I think it needs some work, Shakespeare,” replied the groomer.
Stan looked a little hurt by the supposition that his idea didn’t cut it. The floor signal chimed and displayed an amber “10” above the doors. Stan shuffled out and down the hall. The groomer gently scratched Zeke behind his tiny ears as the doors quietly closed again.
“He’s a character, isn’t he?” she commented.
“Pffft. You don’t know the half of it. He suffers from verbal masturbation.” Zeke looked up at me, but the groomer just grinned.
“Would you actually put shoes on a dog?” I asked, thinking back to the bike messenger’s comment.
Zeke craned his orange-sized head up to look at the groomer, as if he understood the question.
“Well, personally, no,” she said. “But there are certain occasions when booties are used for the animals’ protection.”
Zeke seemed satisfied with the answer, looking at the door when the control panel chimed again as the elevator arrived on the eleventh floor.
The groomer stepped forward as the doors opened. Smiling back, she said, “Have a good afternoon.”
“You, too.”
A man dressed in a pressed shirt, pastel tie, blue jeans and sneakers strolled in, pressed “L” then leaned against the side wall of the elevator, seeming very relaxed.
“Hey, you’re the news guy, right? Steve Blackwell?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m him.”
“You look taller on TV. At least your shoes match your outfit.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” he said, obviously confused.
“Few do. There was a lady here a few minutes ago wearing some atrocious shoes. She didn’t care for my opinion.”
“You gotta’ love freedom of speech.”
“Right on.”
“Nice hairdo, by the way.”
“Thank you very much.” I smiled. “Pretty low maintenance. Speeds up my morning prep time.” We watched the floor display countdown from ten to seven before breaking the silence. “Where’s the rest of the suit?”
“What? Oh, the shirt, tie and jeans thing,” he said. “The camera only shoots from the waist up.”
“So the desk isn’t much else but a cover?”
Steve snickered. “That’s about the size of it, yeah.”
Moments later the elevator opened up into the lobby.
“Break a leg!” I called.
Steve gave a thumbs-up as he exited, and a woman wearing a stark white T-shirt and slacks walked in with her little boy in tow.
“What floor?” I inquired.
“Eight please,” she said, smiling. The boy took a couple of moments to size up the elevator, and then asked, “What do you do?”
“I fix elevators.”
His eyes lit up, “Is it hard?”
“Well, you have to know what makes it go up and down for starters, but it’s interesting. How about you. Do you have a job?” I asked, winking at his mother.
“Noooo,” the boy giggled. “I’m only seven years old. I go to school.”
“Ohh. So is this lady your girlfriend?”
“Noooo, that’s my mommy!” he stiffly declared.
Number six glowed from the display above the doors.
“Do you have a little boy, too?” asked the mother.
“No. I used to.”
“What happened? Where is he? Is he lost?” the boy implored.
“No, not lost. He was very sick. He’s in heaven now.”
Not missing a beat, the child asked, “Is that where you’re going in the elevator, to heaven?”
“No, not today,” I answered with a warm, if not slightly uneasy smile.
Number eight appeared above the door.
“Number eight. This is your floor,” I announced, returning to my prior cheery disposition. Once again, the chime was followed by the doors gliding open to reveal the hallway outside. I pushed the Door Open button to give them both time to exit.
“Be a good boy for your mommy!”
“I will.” The child tugged at his mother’s shirt as they departed. “Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“What will I be when I grow up?”
Picking up her son, she replied “You can be anything you want. It’s entirely up to you.”
His little mind worked her answer to a fine mush.
“Mommy?” he asked again.
“Yes?”
“I want to do what the elevator lady does.”
Releasing the button, I waved at the boy, smiling as the doors slid closed.