Stasis Areas of Office Buildings
September 16, 2001
Of recent years, frequenting department stores such as Myer, David Jones and Grace Bros. was a simple affair. You could stroll around at ease between the various departments and marvel at how the lack of staff competence decreased increasingly as you visited higher floors. (By the time you reach furniture on the top level, the prim commando-style cosmetics sales attendants based on the ground floor are a dream of the past - you’re left to be tended to by mere slack-jawed unshaven simpletons, who are only capable of picking up a telephone on their desk with bleating requests for help).
Lately, however, it seems you are unable to navigate your way between floors without committing a petty crime of some sort. New rules have been introduced by most major stores, requiring you to complete all purchases on any given floor before progressing to another floor. Large warning signs next to escalators and elevators warn that passing into these spaces equates to leaving the store. Naturally, senior citizens are most susceptible to such traps and will often amble haphazardly into screeching security gates; oblivious to their trail of destruction due to poor hearing.
As far as the department stores are concerned, I can grasp the concept of a store’s ‘non-existence’ zone. In the waiting areas for elevators, you’re not actually in the store; according to their protocol. But developments at outlets such as Sydney City’s Woolworths Metro have got me puzzled.
Woolworths Metro apply the ‘all purchases must be completed before travelling upstairs/downstairs’ law, but the only spaces between floors are on escalators. This I cannot get my head around: if I’m not actually in the store whilst I travel on the escalators, where am I? In some eerie stasis zone where all is not it seems to be?
With this in mind, it’s easy to grasp my suspicious awe of elevators. These metal boxes of transportation possess strange properties which initiate strange conversations and behaviour, most especially in work environments. Since beginning my current job, which is based in a building shared by countless small businesses, I have both witnessed and engaged in inane banter during vertical travel which would otherwise have been entirely inappropriate.
The first hints of trouble began on my first days of employment at this job. After being introduced to everyone in the office on a whirlwind tour - handshakes, introductions and pleasantries exchanged on all sides - I was hastily flung into a manic workload which would likely have caused anyone who boasted of ‘time management skills’ on their resume to crack and weep like a young boy whose parents had made a decision to block all outgoing 1900 phone calls.
Fearfully realising that my email inbox had doubled in size at the end of the day despite my full slog at combating it, I departed with a somewhat absent mind. The undivided attention which my job required of me was so concentrated that I was left with little brain processing time after hours. When Adam asked me if I would like a cup of coffee upon my arrival at home, although I wanted to say yes, my brain could only cope with desperately singing ‘Zip a Dee Doo-Dah’ whilst commanding a rabid look in my eyes.
Arriving at work the next day, I felt a little more prepared and harboured confidence that I’d be able to handle proceedings a little better. Entering the elevator, I gave myself a mental pep-talk to prepare myself for the day ahead. From the disturbed looks of the woman who shared the elevator with me, one could be lead to believe I was chanting out loud; but I dismissed her concerns as work-related anxiety.
Until I entered my work’s office, that is. I quickly realised that I’d sat opposite this woman the day before. She scowled at me as I took my seat and I was too excruciatingly embarrassed to offer up a feeble apology for not saying hello in the elevator. I frantically reran the series of events of the morning to gauge my level of rudeness - after realising I’d been waiting for the elevator and travelling with her for a good three minutes, my snob-factor seemed to rank second only to British royalty.
Cursing the strange atmosphere of the elevator and the cramped awkwardness it demands, I didn’t actually speak to the woman all week. Too ashamed to mention the incident, we simply carried on the procession of going to large extents to ignore each other despite our close desk range.
The awkwardness climaxed, rather aptly, in the elevators. Cornered in the exact positions where our tyranny of silence was instigated, we bizarrely began having an everyday discussion about the weather. We even said goodbye to each other upon disembarking. From that point forwards, all was well in our relationship and the incident was not mentioned again.
Obviously, the elevator tore us apart and forced us together again at its whim. These strange metal cubes possess extraordinary powers.
One woman I work with usually arrives each morning around the same time as myself. As we hurtle upwards in the elevator, she can list who else has already arrived that morning - before we’ve entered the office. Originally I suspected this was some bizarrely efficient form of ESP, as her predictions became uncannily correct.
After her daily advance roll call started becoming unnerving, I questioned her about it. ‘How the hell do you know who’s here?’ I demanded.
She cocked her head and frowned. ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ she finally remarked. ‘This elevator seems to do something to me.’
Intent on finding an explanation, the best we could come up with was that she could smell people’s perfume and aftershave in the elevator. I’m not so sure, though: elevators are not to be messed with.
People’s behaviour seems to radically alter from the norm upon entering an elevator. Even the most agreeable of folk will become easily angered whilst travelling between floors. One afternoon, whilst waiting with a group of men from another office in our building; I could clearly see which of the men was their manager. He seemed like a nice guy, too - jovial and not treating his employees as being beneath him in any manner.
Yet once we entered the elevator, I observed quite a strange scene. The manager began barking orders and work-related demands with his back to everyone, nose virtually pressed against the elevator doors due to the cramped conditions. The workers around me began looking at each other wildly, shrugging and frowning at each other in desperation. I’m sure, after that little elevator excursion, someone was demoted for every floor we travelled.
Perhaps there is some pressure placed on people in such close quarters to initiate conversation. Forced small talk usually results in embarrassing moments, as I soon learnt whilst travelling with our receptionist to my lunch break. As I’d just begun my job, there wasn’t really a lot I could say that related to work, so instead I commented on something which seemed to be the apex of sparkling conversation at the time.
‘Toast,’ I noted, as the elevator trundled loudly downwards.
‘Um?’ she looked at me with a worried look.
‘Er…’ I paused, suddenly unsure of what I was talking about. ‘Someone in the office was cooking toast. I think.’
‘Rightey oh,’ she awkwardly replied, looking at the floor.
‘I like toast,’ I continued, intent on plunging my already questionable personality into further disrepute. ‘I’m always craving toast all day.’
‘Me too,’ the receptionist said, in a tone of voice which clearly intoned ‘I hate toast and why the fuck are we discussing popular breakfast food at this time of day anyhow?’
‘In fact, the only time I don’t want toast is at breakfast,’ I continued, as the doors mercifully opened and the receptionist flung herself headlong outside into the cradling arms of safety. Once I stepped out, I couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck I’d just been banging on about; and cursed ye evil elevator, waving my fist at it pointlessly.
But the strange powers which invert people’s behaviour in elevators can sometimes work to your advantage. One woman who works on the floor above me, Tiffany, is somewhat renowned for being slightly clumsy. At least the elevator is one place she can maintain some sense of dignity - although admittedly, it’s quite difficult to hurt yourself in an elevator. The worst I can think of is breaking your finger by pressing the ground floor button a little too eagerly.
Tiffany becomes a statue of grace upon entering the elevators, though. Nobody is failed to be taken away by her mysterious, majestic beauty; which is ended only by an inevitable fall over her high heels upon exiting the elevator. Often, Tiffany will exit the elevator I’m in and the doors will close, only to be followed by a loud crash. In the silence that follows, the wind whispers ‘Tiffany… Tiffany…’
There’s only one way you can worsen the effects of elevators, and that’s by visiting the bathroom directly after disembarking. One afternoon in the early stages of my employment, I quickly diverted to the bathroom on the way back to the office to relieve my bladder. At this point, the urine stream involved in this process elected to awaken to its own consciousness and rebelled against my repression.
I need only mention the word ’spritz’ for you to entertain images of the resulting process. Entering the office, hunched over to disguise myself as best I could, did more to attract attention than detract.
Another incident brought on by elevators is the day I was wearing a new pair of jeans to work. Arriving back from lunch and making a beeline to the bathroom, I realised as I approached the urinal that I was wearing button-ups. The normally swift whizz-zip-n-go process involved when standing in front of a pisstray suddenly became cumbersome as I struggled to unbutton the jeans.
A young male from a neighbouring office entered the toilets as I was halfway through this process, and shot me an alarmed look before quickly retracing his steps. With horror, I realised that it most likely appeared I was feverishly pleasuring myself when in actuality I was simply struggling against my own pants.
Compounding to this, I probably looked like I was showing off because I using two hands.
In summary, as far as I’m concerned elevators are the Bermuda Triangle of human emotion and should be treated as such. Pay no heed to warnings of alarmed staircases: it’s better the stairs are alarmed than you, because you’ll be mentally scarred after riding the bucking bronco that is the office building elevator on a daily basis.
