the elevator's dream

The second elevator is still being renovated. The first one works, with a shiny new screen and a soothing voice that tells you what floor you are on. The problem is, it already does not work. When  you get to the first floor, it thinks it is on the sixth or seventh. When you go up to the fifth, it says it is on the 12th. My wife says it dreams of being in a skyscraper, not our crumbling leftover building. I agree. We all want to be more, taller and more signifiant, dancing from floor to floor in a tower of steel and glass not the same old broken tile hallways, flickering fluorescent lights, the random bit of graffiti on the wall, the leftover can of peas that has a second life as a communal ashtray. This is what the elevator sees every time the doors open. I understand the dream.

These days, it just makes sense to travel one at a time in the cramped little space as it shuttles up and down. I often take the stairs on the way out to avoid sharing it with anyone. On the way back, I search for the words, trying to explain that no stranger should be sharing that tiny space. I get some confused looks, some shoulder shrugs. It could be my bad Russian but they don't spend any time trying to decipher things, they burst past me and go by themselves and I take a step back waiting for the next ride.

Going down the next day, the doors bang open on a middle floor and an old woman lurches forward to join me. She wears no coat, and is clearly just going down to check her mailbox. I ask her not to come in, to wait for the next one. She ignores me.
"My mother has a temperature." I say and she takes a step back.
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" She asks, and the doors close.

It is a moment when telling a lie is what feels best. Could I have stepped out and let her take it? Maybe, but I was just hoping for some consideration, hoping for more. When the doors open it says floor 12 on the little screen as music plays and some little commercial blinks on. I understand the elevator's dream.