I walk into the elevator lobby. The guy there before me has already pushed the up button; since I’m going to the basement, I push the down button.
An elevator arrives; the up light lights up. The other man gets on.
He looks at me, leans out, holds the door open. “You going up?” he asks.
I look at him, blankly. I point at the still-lit down button, directly in his line of sight. “Uh… no. I’m… I’m going… down. That’s why I pushed… the down… button.” My voice drips with snark.
He lets the door close, shaking his head.
Hours later, I’m ready for a break. I leave the basement, go out in the sun; I want to take a walk and get some fresh air.
I approach the intersection and the lanes of the one-way street are clear, except for a lone white SUV approaching in the far lane.
The SUV slows. The SUV stops. Inside, I see the driver, an older woman, wave me across.
I double-check and the lady has no stop sign. There is no other traffic. In my head, I calculate that if she hadn’t stopped, she would be well on her way and I would already be half way across by now. Why did she stop?
I feel anger at her, though I’m not sure of the reason, or even if it’s reasonable for me to feel this way.
Finally, she rolls down her window and waves me across again.
I look around. Still no traffic – wait, a car approaches from the other intersecting street. The driver of that car sees me and the lady’s standoff and appears confused.
All three wait.
Finally, the late-arriving car pulls out and around the front end of the SUV, which was slightly blocking him.
I still have not moved from the sidewalk where I stand.
The lady rolls forward and looks out the window at me. “Why didn’t you cross?”
“Why didn’t you just go?” I ask her in return.
“Because if someone is crossing the street, the law says I have to let them cross.”
My anger returns at what I see as her lecturing me. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
She’s still there, in front of me. There is still no other traffic. “Were you going to cross?”
“I’m waiting for someone,” I say, and I think, I’m waiting for you to leave.
“Oh. OK.” She pulls away.
I immediately cross behind her, hoping she will see me.
I don’t know why that made me mad. Or perhaps I started out mad.
Back at work, I wheel an empty cart out to the elevator bank. I use my key on the freight elevator and wait for it to arrive.
A lady, dressed in a professional outfit, in contrast to my jeans and t-shirt, walks out of the training room. “Are you going to one?” she asks. Just then, another non-freight elevator arrives, and she walks into it. She turns towards me, holds the door open. “Do you want to take this elevator?”
My anger returns, unreasonably annoyed. “No I am waiting for the freight elevator because I need to get this cart to the loading dock and I can’t get there from those elevators.”
“OK,” she says. “Fine. Sorry.”
Is it just me? Was I in a bad mood? What the Hell was going on?
It’s probably just me.