The Elevator Ride

The following is practice for NaNoWriMo, which begins in twenty-six days.

The sun rose over the sea of skyscrapers and gave the smog an attractive tint. The wind picked up and caused litter cyclones. In an unusual convergence of corporate, municipal and natural forces, a fast food chain paid the city to sponsor the swirling trash at its busiest intersections.

On a particularly gusty corner, a pair of legs, clothed in oversized cargo pants (with precise rips), trudged through a tornado of chicken sandwich boxes and large soda cups. The legs belonged to Lenny, who, once he removed the cheeseburger wrapper (and cheese) from his face, looked far from loving it.

He rushed, in a leisurely sort of way, into one of the high rise buildings. With determination, he casually strolled through the lobby, past the empty security desk, to the elevators and pressed the call button. In two heartbeats, a bell chimed and one of the elevators opened. Lenny stepped in and pulled a post-it note and red pen from one of his baggy pockets.

This morning, he was dressed sloppily, as he was every morning. His coworkers attributed his appearance to laziness, but he knew better. He had to wake an hour early to look like he just woke up. His shoes were untied and his hair was uncombed. More accurately, his hair appeared uncombed. In truth, it took hairspray and enough saliva to lick thirty envelopes to make the cowlicks stay. He took great care not to shave and made sure to leave most of his shirt untucked. A deliberately hastily made peanut butter sandwich threatened to escape from his strategically unzipped backpack. Were one to notice his unusual attention to carelessness, one would have known Lenny's true nature. He was anally apathetic.

He pressed the button for Floor 108 and tried his best to slouch properly. He glanced at his reflection in the silver elevator wall and gave himself a disapproving look. He shook himself to loosen his muscles and tried again. After two more shakes, he felt sufficiently slouchy. As the elevator began its ascent, he eagerly practiced an expression of sheer boredom.

The elevator chimed at the second floor, the doors opened and another man entered. He was in his early thirties, nearly the same age as Lenny, but was clean-shaven and had slicked back, saliva-free hair. He carried a briefcase and was primly dressed in a pressed blue pinstripe suit. His tie had tiny elephants and donkeys on it. The animals were shown in various positions that suggested the owner of the tie wasn't a fan of a certain two-party system. He nodded at Lenny and pulled a red pen and post-it note from his jacket pocket.

"Lenny."

"George."

"Ready?"

"Ready."

They leaned against the sides of the car with pens poised over their post-it notes. The doors closed and the elevator accelerated upward. As people entered and pressed buttons, both men glanced at the lighted button, intently scanned their scraps of paper, and occasionally made marks.

As the car climbed, the tension between the two seemed to mount. George looked grim while Lenny aggressively tried to appear unaffected.

At the 94th floor, a senior executive entered. Lenny recognized the man, shifted and assumed his game face. George glanced at Lenny and immediately knew something was up. It was never a good sign or a comfortable sight to see Lenny manage an expression of nervous boredom. He knew Lenny was close, but he was close, too. It all depended on what the man did next.

They watched with anticipation as the executive's finger zeroed in on a button. 98? 101? 104? The finger hovered over 104 for a second and Lenny let slip a squeak.

Then the man pressed 103. Lenny gaped, but quickly covered his shock by gaping nonchalantly.

George scanned his post-it note feverishly. With a shout, he marked it and waved it wildly in the air.

"Bingo!"