Several columns ago, I wrote about the need to, after 30 years, toss my resume into the job pool due to the COVID-19 pandemic. While I have yet to receive any employment offers, I have identified a new career path, one that requires only a mask, sterile gloves, and a willingness to stand for eight hours while enduring short bits of inane conversation.
Need an elevator operator? I’m your guy.
As retail establishments slowly unlock their doors and ponder how to attract customers while adhering to social distancing guidelines, industries synonymous with large crowds – travel and tourism comes to mind – are facing complete overhauls when it comes to keeping people apart, yet happy. Visitors to a reopened Disney World may no longer be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with other park patrons as they wait to ride Space Mountain. According to the Orlando Sentinel, other changes Disney is contemplating include staggered waiting rooms for rides, eliminating reusable 3-D glasses (thank you Disney!) and abolishing restaurant buffets.
Oh yes, and only letting one person touch the elevator buttons at Disney hotels. Yes, the dying image of a uniformed operator asking, “Floor please?” and announcing numerical destinations each time the doors slide open may soon become the norm. That’s where I step in. I want to be that guy. And I don’t even need a uniform. I will accept the job not solely for economic reasons, but for selfish ones.
In short, people in elevators, correction, anyone near an elevator, annoys me.
Most of my pet peeves involve an elevator. For starters, the woefully impatient humans who bang on an already lit “up” or “down” button, as if doing so will magically make the elevator arrive faster.
Then there’s the on and off process. People who try to enter an elevator before everybody wishing to get off has exited should be grabbed by their shoulders and forcibly hurled back into the lobby until it’s their turn. Ladies, from my experience, you are the biggest culprits when it comes to this behavior. No, I’ve never grabbed your shoulders but, I’ll admit, you have been the object of a few verbal barbs alluding to your rudeness.
Once in my elevator, I would announce two rules: Per company policy, no touching of anything other than yourself. Per Greg Schwem policy, no talking. Nobody wants to hear your cell phone conversations which will undoubtedly include some semblance of the phrase, “I’m in an elevator so I might lose you.” Furthermore, there’s no need for unfunny jokes like, “Maybe we should have taken the stairs” or “Obviously, this isn’t an express train.” If I hear either of those lines, I will be forced to unleash my own twisted sense of humor. I’ll subtly bring the elevator to a grinding halt, gaze at the ceiling and say, “Wow, I thought they fixed this. But no worries. Somebody should come for us in two hours. Three tops.”
I realize I may have to play traffic cop, telling would-be riders that my car is full even though the new definition of a “full” elevator might be four patrons, each standing six feet apart from one another. As the doors close, I would cackle and remind the still-stranded riders how their request for a high hotel floor or purchase of a penthouse apartment now seems like a really bad idea. Hey, when you spend eight hours in a box measuring, on average, seven feet wide and six feet deep, a few snarky barbs will help pass the time.
I know this may not be the most stable profession, no pun intended, but I’m not worried. The new reality of keeping our hands off anything touched by another person will resurrect other occupations that, like elevator operator, are associated with bygone eras. Who knows? The next time your automobile requires gas, I might appear at your car window asking, “Unleaded or diesel?” I’ll dispense your fuel, so you don’t have to touch the pump.
Just don’t attempt humor. Remember, you just handed me your credit card.
