500 West Madison
by Brooks
Each button on the control
panel of the elevator is backlit by an individual lightbulb. The power of each
bulb is not strong, twenty watts at the most. Raymond thinks it is tedious for
the designers of the elevator to go to all that trouble for each button. The
buttons merely exist as a representation for a group of floors. The designers
must have their reasons. He pushes the button with the number 37 printed on
it. It lights up. He stands directly at the center of the elevator with his
back to the wall. His nose is perfectly lined with the opening of the elevator
door. He is ready.
A man stands to Raymond's left nestled in the corner of the elevator. He is
wearing pleated khakis and an oatmeal colored Henley. A
black plastic pager hangs from the man's oxblood leather belt. Raymond does
not understand the demand for pagers or Henleys. Henleys are essentially button
down shirts without collars. People are compelled to button the top button of
their Henleys more often than not. The shirts are an impossible situation. The
man's pager is proudly displayed. It reflects some of the underpowered light
coming from the elevator's ceiling. Raymond believes the pagers were once a
weak status, but are now passé.
Raymond refocuses on the control panel. The buttons have Braille inscriptions
beside them. For all the time he has given to elevators, Raymond has has never
seen a blind person board one. He wonders how many blind people actually know
the Braille system. Blind people, he believes, do not have much to do with their
lives outside petting their seeing eye dogs and shopping for new white canes.
But how would they know the canes are white? Braille must be a possibility.
Raymond wishes he were blind during the elevator ride. The architectural design
is not to his liking. It is an attempt at a neo art-deco motif. The design runs
through the building. This would be perfectly fine by Raymond, but the color
scheme is composed of brushed steel with neutral gray and matte blue pastel.
The colors are muted.
A lady in a gray business suit runs three fingers through her hair. The hair
is graying and fine. Shampoo manufacturers call this "damaged" hair. The lady
stands to Raymond's right, closer to the control panel than the man with the
Henley and pager. She pushes button 32 with the same hand she touched her damaged
hair. 32 does not light at first. She pushes it again, but this time with nervous
desperation. Raymond smiles. The light is on.
Software America. Raymond knows the company on 32. Half of the time his trip
is interrupted by a passenger going to 32. He never goes to 32, only 37 and
40. The latter is Baker, Jones & Epstein, a prestigious law firm. The former
is Johnson & Felders. He believes Johnson & Felders is less prestigious than
Baker, Jones & Epstein.
Raymond looks down at the neutral gray tile floor. This is standard elevator
etiquette when riding with strangers. The floor is remarkably clean, but the
neutrality pains him. He longs for the art-deco savvy of 141 W. Jackson or 135
S. Lasalle. Despite the poor color choice, the floor watching must be maintained.
The woman is looking at the ceiling of the elevator. The man's eyes are waist
high on the top of his pager. All three sets of eyes could not be more apart
at this moment. They are silent -- comme il faut indeed.
The woman's feet offer inadequate solace for Raymond's eyes. They are covered
with white Reebok sneakers. Puffy white cotton socks keep her nylons from touching
her shoes. Raymond expects this, but he does not know the exact motivation for
such foot dressing outside of selfish comfort. Do the socks prevent the shoes
from causing unnecessary wear on the toe and heel of the nylons? Aren't the
nylons naturally reinforced at the heel and toe? Despite the conflicting questions
the sock-shoe-nylon set up is de Niger for most females in this building. Other
buildings, such as 875 N. Michigan do not have such a problem with the sock-shoe-nylon
issue.
Prestige. Law firm prestige is directly linked to the air of professionalism
and businesslike ways of the mailroom. If the room is bustling with the sounds
of copying machines, telephones and faxes, Raymond is content. If the mailroom
is lax and the employees eat pastries while listening to the radio, he is disgusted.
These are his clues.
Raymond turns his attention to the man's footwear. The Henley and pleated khakis
were mated with oxblood wingtips. The soles are remarkably thin. Raymond appreciated
the matching of the belt and shoes, but the wingtips are a fashion faux pas:
they are too stuffy to go with the devil-may-care khakis and questionable Henley.
Casual combined with corporate. Unforgivable. This fashion ensemble may be permissible
on Friday, but not today. Casual Day is four days away.
Although Raymond has not been to Software America on 32 in over a year, he is
certain they are not prestigious. He has seen the salmon pink and shale blue
carpeting in their lobby. A Navajo white is plastered to the walls of Software
America. The three colors are supposed to play on the more patriotic red white
and blue. It is a failure. He remembers a gong by the receptionist's desk. The
walls are trimmed with stained mahogany. A brass sign forms the letters S A.
This is not to his taste.
Raymond's hand grasp the brushed steel railing of the elevator. His knees lock.
He is braced and centered. The hand railings on the elevator make it seem more
like an amusing ride.
The woman's perplexing shoe-sock-nylon combination catches Raymond's eyes once
again; they begin to tell a story that usually holds true for all woman of the
shoe-sock-nylon issue. At the age of sixteen she applied for her first job as
a check out girl at the local grocery store. She couldn't get a job at the more
prosperous supermarket across town because of age requirements. The manager,
a man of 21 years was more than happy to have her on the team. She was taken
by his character when she went to fill out the application for employment. His
blue polyester vest and name tag with the dubious title 'Manager' were vestiges
of power. He also had the virile beginnings of a faint moustache.
After four months of employment, she really began to feel that she had found
her niche in the greater machine of the team. Two of the bag boys flirted with
her on an almost daily basis. This did wonders for her self-esteem. She would
never consider anything serious with the bag boys, they were beneath her in
the grocery store hierarchy. She had eyes for only one man: her true love, the
Manager.
The Manager (after hours known as Kip) was wise to feminine wiles. The check
out girl routine was nearly old hat for him after nearly ten months in the Manager
position. He had made the down payment two months earlier on a metallic blue
Datsun. Longing for the much touted Employee of the Month honor, she decided
to oblige the Manager on a date to the drive-in. She really believed in the
Employee of the Month distinction.
Innocence was lost before the conclusion of Poltergeist. Her eyes caught a fleeting
glimpse of Kip's pasty white calves in the seductive light of the drive-in.
She had lost her virginity, but gained Employee of the Month status. Their clandestine
affair continued for the duration of her employment at the grocery store. They
spoke of marriage in awkward post-coital moments. It was never that serious.
This story plays in Raymond's mind each time the shoe-sock-nylon phenomenon
is witnessed. The story is tripe. It is one of his reoccurring tortures.
The elevator ascends. Raymond's eyes move from the woman's shoes to his legs.
A deep, bluish scar on his left knee is the focus. The force of the rising elevator
puts pressure on his locked knees. He bends his knees slightly to relieve this
pressure. He is a daily victim to the upward hoist of this elevator and many
others like it. The knees feel it and comply. The elevator designers, or engineers,
have decided to slowly cripple him. It is a small conspiracy. The pressure more
noticeable now than before. Each time Raymond rides the elevator upward he feels
this sensation more acutely. Though he is not without pain, his countenance
is one of complete sang-froid.
Raymond surmises that the man with the thin soled wingtips must feel the pain
as well. He is older than Raymond. The knees are not as insulated as Raymond's
because of age. He is mainly a latent individual. The man's face, like Raymond's,
remains calm despite the upward forces. He crosses his left leg over his right
at the ankle while standing. Raymond notices that the sole of the man's left
foot is smooth, treadless.
The woman must not feel the minute but immense pain of the rising elevator,
unless she is also masking it. The shoe-sock-nylon situation makes it too comfortable
for her to be masking. Her elevator ride is artificial this way. Perhaps her
husband (not Kip, but somebody else) is an elevator engineer. He may work for
OTIS.
Raymond moves his eyes over the lower portion of the woman's face, being careful
not to confront the eyes. He notices she has what many people would call a beauty
mark above the left side of her upper lip. It is a mole. He has no illusions.
Aside from the mole, her face is average. He cannot detect anything of note.
Her nose is not big or small. It is neither bulbous or pointed. Indescribable.
The elevator shudders. The woman clutches the brushed steel railing with her
right hand. A black leather bag with her papers and slightly more fashionable
office shoes is in her left. The man in the Henley stays nestled in his corner.
The woman looks down from the ceiling. Raymond loses himself for a moment. His
eyes make contact with the woman -- a mistake. Her eyes meet Raymond's. The
elevator slows.
The elevator has almost come to a complete stop. He looks away. His eyes find
the number 32 on the button. The light behind the button goes out. The woman
speaks:
"Have you ever been hit by a car?"
The elevator stops completely. Raymond pauses.
"Yeah."
The elevator doors open. They seem to catch on something momentarily, but then
continue.
"Wow... and you're still working?"
"Yep."
"You bike messengers are crazy."
The woman looks out the door to the brass sign and the distant gong that is
partially obstructed by the walls of the elevator. She leaves the elevator and
joins the patriotic melange of muted colors. The doors close, but without the
small catch this time.
Raymond looks back to the scar on his knee. The number 37 is still lit. He is
still centered with the opening of the elevator doors, but knows that he is
out of place. The man in the Henley is still resting against the corner. Raymond
takes one side-step to his right. He is almost brushing the right wall with
his arm. The man takes one small step forward and to the right. Raymond admires
to the fact that both he and the man are equidistant and their weight is distributed
on the elevator floor evenly.
The elevator ascends again. The man, who has been looking at his pager up to
this moment, glances at the control panel. He steps forward and presses the
button numbered 36 on the control panel. He looks over to Raymond, who has been
distracted from his musings by the abrupt motions of the man in the Henley.
The man speaks:
"Oops... I forgot."
Raymond nods and cracks the faint semblance of a smile. He gazes at a small
key loosely bound to his left wrist by a black shoelace.
The shoelace was the result of several years of experience as a bicycle courier.
In his youth, Raymond used to carry the same key in his pocket. This practice
was soon found to be inefficient. Each time his bicycle had to be locked to
a parking meter Raymond had to fumble with the key while it was in his pocket.
This was a waste of precious time.
The key was soon fastened to two beige rubber bands that adorned Raymond's wrist.
Rubber bands are cheap and readily available in his line of work. They seemed
to be the logical choice for a key fastener. The key was now closer to his hand
and more efficient.
The bliss found in the rubber bands soon wore off. They broke often and the
beige color accumulated dirt easily. It was not the most flattering thing to
deal with. A quick remedy for accidental breakage was a third safety rubber
band affixed to the dangling key. For the better part of two years Raymond dealt
with the never weekly chore of replacing rubber bands on his wrist. The shoelace
was a serendipitous, but sublime discovery.
A shoelace on one of Raymond's old work shoes had broken on the same day as
a rubber band on his wrist. It was perceived as more than a coincidence and
a sublime epiphany. The black shoelace (unlike the beige rubber bands) would
not show dirt. Shoelaces are also incredibly resilient to stress. After a few
simple knots, Raymond had found the answers. He looks upon his achievements
with a great deal of pride. His innovation is shared and praised by others in
the messenger community. It is a success.
The pain from the upward force of the elevator subsides. Floor 36 is a law library.
Raymond knows this because of the occasional book carts on 37. They are labelled,
in sloppy capital letters, with a black permanent marker "LIB 36".
The man in the Henley could be a librarian or an avid reader. It is also possible
he is neither.
The elevator begins to slow once more. Raymond is seething. He did not figure
on stopping for two additional floors -- only one. The man in the Henley does
not even know the folly in his ways. The elevator stops. Raymond keeps his eyes
fixed on the control panel. The doors open. The man addresses Raymond.
"Have a good one, guy."
The man in the Henley leaves the elevator for a floor with shelves of olive
green books and a marble bust of a dignified fellow with high cheek bones. Number
36, once briefly lit is extinguished. The doors close. The man's exit lacks
respect.
The dead phrase "have a good one" does not catch Raymond's attention. "Guy",
on the other hand, does. He believes guy does not signify the proper amount
of gratitude for the profession. It is an empty appellation. Raymond believes
his breed to be the lone ambassador of machismo in the corporate arena. The
bicycle courier is a direct descendent of the cowboys and the gauchos. Their
prestige traced to the matador. His bicycle is directly linked to the matador's
muleta. The bulls are larger and motorized. He attempts daring passes with the
muleta. Each pass is pure artistry. It is bravado and skilled deception all
at once. An expert in his field can discriminate between tasteful runs and poor
ones. All deliveries exist to be performed in a fluid motion of grace. They
are Raymond's sublime challenge. Like the matador, he can be gored.
Raymond centers himself with the seam of the elevator doors once more. The elevator
ascends. 37 is still lit. This time the forces working on his knee are almost
excruciating. The knees react. They comply.
© Brooks
Dead Air