The elevators in my office building and I have a unique relationship. They open for me and I thank them by not tracking unpleasant odours into their encasements or spitting on their finely woven ruggery.
When I say they open for me, allow me to be clear. I do not press the call button.
Rather, they appear to merely sense my presence as I approach them, and are ready with a freshly opened door and an empty elevator car when I am within stepping distance. This is a great boon to me, as I am freed from the oppressive push/wait cycle that plagues my building's cohabitants.
While I had heretofore left the two elevators' services unsung, I can no longer avoid giving them due praise, particularly after Friday's exceptional aid.
My work day had come to an end. I packed up my satchel and, with usual weekend fervor, exited my office's suite 301 and strode casually but decidedly towards the elevators in my floor's foyer. The elevator on the right (picture above has been changed to protect the elevator's identity) presented me with a wonderfully open door devoid of any other passengers. As excited as I was to get the weekend started, I thought it would be prudent to empty my bladder first in the bathroom adjacent to the elevator door.
Taking the elevator's gesture for granted, I rejected its offering and entered the bathroom to relieve myself. The requisite amount of seconds later, I re-entered the foyer, and, not expecting a second gesture, approached the call button.
But no. With all the precision and timeliness of a Manhattan hotel's doorman, the elevator opened itself unbidden once more just as I stepped forward. Flabbergasted but honoured, I stepped into its quarters and rode the sweet shaft. I rode it to the ground.
Precisely the kind of service that will kick start a gentleman's weekend.
(The situations described above are in no way embellished, and to even think such a thing would be an affront to the elevator in question.)