Moving Day
It was a long day at work today. When I arrived at my building, I was a little crestfallen to see that someone appeared to be moving with one of the elevators, which usually signifies that the wait for the other elevator is four times the average time of the single one. (You know, I wonder if there's a mathematical formula to explain this — you'd initially think one elevator rather than two would take twice as long, but the extended congestion almost guarantees that someone will be waiting on every floor by the time it comes around, increasing both the number of stops and the extent of the trip, so it seems to quadruple the average wait.)
When I pushed the UP button my disappointment itself increased: You see, the UP button didn't work. And the reason the UP button didn't work is that the moving party neglected to phone the property manager to set the moving elevator out of service. So as long as that elevator sat there on the first floor, doors open, being filled with furniture, the other elevator saw no reason to bother to drop down for a visit, assuming its friend was taking care of us.
Do I anthropomorphize? Very well, then, I anthropomorphize; (I am largeÑI contain anthropomorphs.)
Anyway, I gave my co-waiters a look which was meant to say, "There's ten bucks in it for anyone who climbs the stairs to the sixth floor and sends the other elevator down here for the rest of us." Before anyone volunteered, however, the movers finished shoving as many boxes and chairs as they could fit into the first elevator, and once that elevator was off towards its destination, the other elevator finally responded to the call.
Of course, just before that, there was this quick interchange between one of the other residents and the movers: "Somebody moving?"
"Actually no."
". . ."
"We're not movers. We're stagers. We decorate condos to make them easier to sell. So this isn't our furniture; it's our inventory."
So presumably we had been patiently waiting not out of courtesy to a potential new neighbor, but for a realtor. Great.
When I pushed the UP button my disappointment itself increased: You see, the UP button didn't work. And the reason the UP button didn't work is that the moving party neglected to phone the property manager to set the moving elevator out of service. So as long as that elevator sat there on the first floor, doors open, being filled with furniture, the other elevator saw no reason to bother to drop down for a visit, assuming its friend was taking care of us.
Do I anthropomorphize? Very well, then, I anthropomorphize; (I am largeÑI contain anthropomorphs.)
Anyway, I gave my co-waiters a look which was meant to say, "There's ten bucks in it for anyone who climbs the stairs to the sixth floor and sends the other elevator down here for the rest of us." Before anyone volunteered, however, the movers finished shoving as many boxes and chairs as they could fit into the first elevator, and once that elevator was off towards its destination, the other elevator finally responded to the call.
Of course, just before that, there was this quick interchange between one of the other residents and the movers: "Somebody moving?"
"Actually no."
". . ."
"We're not movers. We're stagers. We decorate condos to make them easier to sell. So this isn't our furniture; it's our inventory."
So presumably we had been patiently waiting not out of courtesy to a potential new neighbor, but for a realtor. Great.