Who wrote the rules for Elevator Etiquette, and whose role is it to enforce them?
What does it mean if I fantasize about pressing every button, initiating conversation with my fellow passengers in this claustrophobic rectangular box, or turning my face any direction except forward?
After all, I’ve danced in these mechanical transports; I may have hummed along with the Muzak; and (in 1987) I fell victim to a pickpocket somewhere between the third and twelfth levels of Chicago’s Conrad Hilton.
I mostly ride in silence these days, outwardly conforming to society’s standard. Although in my imagination, I’m still stepping out and challenging those elevator behavioral laws.
Quiet Strength... and Coffee 