Elevatorage

I am not a person full of rage. That's not my default setting, anyway. When I do get mad, at least it's not over trivial things. If my mashed potatoes touch anything else on the plate I become apoplectic. Make my coffee weak in the morning and I'll take the coffee maker, grind it into a fine powder with my bare hands and sprinkle into a stronger coffee that I made by flying to Brazil, taking some coffee farmers hostage, trading them for coffee plants, grinding the plants in the plane engines as I fly back, adding a bit of water and drinking it through the eye sockets from the hollowed out skull of an ex-Starbucks professional.

Otherwise I'm fairly calm.

But there is one activity that really flings me into a rage - waiting for an elevator. I think I developed this when I lived at 88 Erskine Avenue in Toronto. This is a building with 29,000 floors and 4 lame elevators that barely haul your butt into the sky. I was on the 15,000th floor (might have been the 15th floor) and for a time I actually walked up to my apartment to avoid my waiting rage. I use the word apartment very loosely. Archeological site is probably more accurate. Coroners office in the sky. Petrie dish with a balcony. Abattoir on Erskine.

Yesterday I was waiting for an elevator at a friends apartment. After about 30 seconds of this, all those rageful memories came flooding back. Then I realized I'm only on the fourth floor. It didn't matter. Two minutes go by. I started tearing the walls of the building apart with my mind. Then I looked for the common signs that the elevator was near. The door shakes from the breeze of the passing elevator car. My hopes were up, but I'm still up on the fourth floor. I stared at the lit up button for what seemed like the age of the universe. Will it go out, signaling the arrival of relief? Five minutes on…

At this stage one reaches what I call the elevator investment stage. I could end this now and take the stairs, but I've invested valuable time and I want some return on that. Otherwise I've wasted my time waiting. So let's waste more time, so that I don't feel like I've wasted the time that's already wasted. I've never really understood the analogy of investing time, as if you're investing money. When I invest money, I hope to get more money back. When I invest time, I never get more time back. I can't put that time aside and use it later for an emergency, like finishing my taxes on time. Time is more like a battery. You carry a certain amount around with you and it wears out too quickly. Unless it's an Energizer battery. Unfortunately, you can't recharge your time battery, unless you believe in reincarnation. If you believe in that, you also believe you will win the lottery. But you're more likely to be killed by a falling battery than winning the lottery. Sorry.

It's going on 6 minutes now. I turn around. There it is, glittering in the otherwise dull light of the hallway. Something to occupy my time in a productive way. A mirror. I'm sure they put it there for the very purpose of relieving rage. I stare at my face and my mind wanders. I try and convince myself I look like Ryan Gosling. A simple hair fix is required. Failure. I try and convince myself I look like George Clooney. Failure. Brad Pitt. Failure. Danny Devito. Closer. That guy on the Oliver Jewellery commercials (money for gold). Success. I quickly make a mental note of places where I need to remove hair from my body, an important process as you age - ears, nose, lips…Do you ever notice people, like on the subway, who fix their hair. They move a few hairs around as if they are making some kind of major transformation to their look. There we go, now I can be out in public. Um, no. You look the same as it ever was.

Suddenly, I hear voices. They are coming from the hollow chamber of the elevator shaft and sound like angels coming to gently usher me to heaven, which in this case is DOWN, not up. The voices continue but that annoying elevator light doesn't go out. It's at that moment I realize what's happening. These angels are moving into the building and they are holding the ONE available elevator to move their crappy furniture. I want to tear the wings off these angels and watch them writhe in pain. I want to scissor-kick these angels to hell.

I settle for walking down 4 flights of stairs. Another investment gone bad.