The Elevator
SANITY ON BACKORDER
From Hive Peak Boulevard
By Danu Marche
Humor Columnist
Published: July 11, 2025
Synapse & Spectacle
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This week, a stranger in an elevator tried to read my soul.
There are unwritten rules for surviving the close-quarters hostage situation known as “the elevator ride.” Rule One: Eyes forward. Rule Two: If you must make small talk, keep it on weather, sports, or any topic that doesn’t imply existential doom. Rule Three: Under no circumstances should you stare directly at another human as if you’ve just spotted them on a crime documentary.
And yet—this morning—there he was. The man who decided the three floors between lobby and my stop were the perfect setting for an unblinking ocular siege. He didn’t just glance. He committed. We’re talking deep-focus, cinematographer-in-an-art-film intensity. If my life had a soundtrack, this is when the single cello note would begin.
At first, I tried the classic counter: the Quick Ceiling Tile Study. “Oh, is that a new pattern in the acoustic paneling? Fascinating.” But he didn’t break. Not once. The only other time I’ve felt that level of observation was when my cat silently watched me eat chips at 3 a.m., clearly composing a scathing review.
By floor two, I’d gone through the stages of elevator panic:
1. Mild confusion (“Maybe he’s looking past me.”)
2. Defensive humor (“What, do I have spinach in my teeth?”)
3. Existential spiral (“Is this the moment I get drafted into a secret government program?”)
And because the universe believes in escalation, my brain chose that moment to recall every previous elevator interaction in my life—including the one last month when I accidentally said “You too” after the maintenance guy wished me a good colonoscopy.
Halfway through this ocular marathon, I paused in shock at the interior ad poster. Today’s squirrel sighting: perched on a fence just beyond a man watering his lawn, holding a half-eaten bagel with the poise of someone prepared to deliver a TED Talk. It didn’t blink either (yes. I know this is a poster. Work with me here). This was rapidly turning into the world’s most competitive staring contest, and I was losing to both species. By the way, the advertisement poster was for voter registration. I know!
By floor three, I was out of strategies. The doors opened, and the man finally spoke—not to me, but to the universe—saying, “You remind me of someone I used to know.” That’s it. No follow-up. No context. Just planted that psychological landmine and walked away.
Now I’m left wondering: Was it a compliment? A warning? The opening line of a horror story? And why, why, did he press every button on the panel before leaving?
So here’s my modest proposal: we need a universal elevator code. Something etched into every panel, like the rules for pool safety. Rule Four: If you feel the urge to lock eyes with a stranger for more than two seconds, redirect your gaze to literally anything else—the floor number display, your phone, or, in extreme cases, your own shoes.
Until then, I’ll be taking the stairs. It’s not about fitness. It’s about avoiding that moment when someone decides the appropriate way to pass sixty vertical seconds is to x-ray your psyche and drop the results into a squirrel ballot box.
“If you’ve survived an elevator stare-down and lived to tell the tale, please send your strategies. Bonus points if they involve snacks for distraction—bagels might work.”
©2025 Danu Marche
