ELEVATOR MAN

Erik Flask

I have already chosen today’s building.

In my closet, I have a uniform in a color/pattern to match that of each building’s staff.

I sewed them all by hand. Greens, blues, greys, and a gingham red. I press one every morning.

I sneak past the security guards as, distracted in a sex hunt,

they whisper into their phones ”available, single male, no kids.”

I just tiptoe, then hop into the elevator wearing my appropriate faux uniform.

Standing stiff with my straight, useful spine.

I ask the mandatory, logical and only question “what floor?”

They look surprised I’m even there, and it takes them a few seconds to answer.

Their face does not always have a frown, but it is often a sour shape.

Sometimes they try to push the buttons themselves, and I usually let them.

But this is my job!

This is where I am needed.

Upon arriving at the floor. I celebrate the “ding” with them and chime with my open smile.

I announce the floor number

with proud insight and sincere emotion. The doors open.

And then I open my arms in an energized horizontal slanted scissor motion and

Present the floor!

This is my job.