Shafted
I live on the fourth floor of a four story luxury apartment building. By “luxury”, I mean the hot water is hot for more than 3 minutes. My building is central to most of LA. But it still takes 2 hours to get anywhere.
One hour drive in the car.
One hour surviving the elevator ride.
Half the time I want to go from the fourth floor to the lobby, the elevator stops on the second floor, the doors open and no one gets on. Then I see someone standing in the hallway. They ask, “Going up?”
Going the other way is just as bad. On the way up, I can count on stopping at least once. When the doors open, the same knucklehead stands there and asks, “Going down?”
There is a possibility the elevators are stopping and opening the doors by themselves. If that is the case, my building has bigger problems than the crazy residents. The elevators are possessed! “This fall, Tristar Pictures presents the scariest movie of all time- ELEVATOR! Get ready to get shafted!”
Setting aside demonic elevators for the moment, it means the residents and/or their guests are pushing the UP button when they want to go DOWN and vice versa. This is understandable. The arrows on the buttons are sometimes confusing. To make it clearer, these diagrams may help:
This shape indicates UP:
This shape indicates DOWN:
When you want to travel in an upward fashion, moving from the earth toward your selected floor, the UP arrow applies. When you want to move from your living space back to the ground, select the DOWN arrow.
Maybe some people just have lots of time on their hands and are just punching the buttons on a whim, going up or down depending on their mood that minute. It’s not such a bad thing. Spontaneity adds spice to life. One time in college I borrowed my dad’s car for a date. I picked her up at her sorority house near Akron U. We started out to go bowling at Stonehenge Bowling Alley in Cuyahoga Falls. But somehow we ended up in Myrtle Beach. I don’t think my dad noticed the extra 1500 miles on the odometer.
So, spontaneity is good. But randomly punching the elevator buttons and going for a ride offers limited surprises. Especially in my building. On the top floor there is a blue carpet, an ashtray and a window overlooking the pool. You might think the pool would offer some entertainment. However, although is LA is full of beautiful women, none of them are ever seen in my pool. Or my whole building.
At the other end of the elevator shaft is P2, the parking deck. There is nothing to see there, either. In fact, it is dangerous. My building is near the famous La Brea Tar Pits and itself sits on some of the ancient deposits. The floor on P2 is always cracking with oily tar oozing up. One of these days a Ford Explorer is going to get sucked under, resurfacing in a million years with a mastodon at the wheel, his head sticking through the sunroof.
I’m glad I don’t have to park my car on P2- it floods- at least, that’s what a big sign in the laundry room warns: PLEASE WAIT THREE MINUTES BETWEEN TURNING ON INDIVIDUAL WASHING MACHINES. OTHERWISE, IT FLOODS ON P2.
I’ve never waited the three minutes between machines. By the time I do laundry, I’ve filled 38 machines. If I waited the requisite three minutes, I’d have to wear my laundry day outfit for a week- Rancho Park golf hat, torn Ohio University Bobcat t-shirt that last fit me in 1985, swimming trunks, and flip flops.
My building is a limited tourist attraction. As cops say after a bar fight, “There is nothing to see here people. Let’s move it out.”
Don’t stop my elevator! I have laundry to do.
