My Morning

The highlight of my day was walking into the elevator at 8:55am to turn around to see one goddess like creature following me. At least for my building, which is filled with the crotchety old, she was the most attractive twenty-something that I’ve seen approach “the metal coaches to slavery.” She had me at the knee-high boots and short skirt, but like riding a Ferris wheel, the view got better the higher I went.

Things are looking up I thought. In that moment, I quickly addressed the possibilities. “Mighty cold out there…” No, she knew it was cold.  A blind man could read the Braille on her chest and tell me she didn’t want to dwell on the subject of the weather. “My name is....” No, too plain and a little weird in its straightforwardness. “Do you have a pen? I have to sign these legal documents because I am a lawyer.” Yea that’s the ticket with this one. And if that fails I could always follow up with “Phone number? I cannot remember mine, can I borrow yours?” Smooth, right?

As you can tell, my climax was quickly followed by the anticlimax of my day. No not for the reasons you think. I didn’t get to “Phone number?” or “Pen?” nor did I even get to chicken-out and use “hi, my name is.” No. Apparently, as I was assessing the possibilities, she was assessing the pitfalls. Like a model for the Greek statues I was comparing her to, she took a pose and held it. She was just steps from the entryway, standing there and staring directly into my elevator. I say “my elevator” as there was no one else: just the negative space, the open doors and me.

Realize, though, that I have no problems exchanging mutual stares. This is after all the highlight of my day. I reached out and held the door. Smart move. Now, the doors stood open for a sufficiently long period. I know this because during our whisperless stare I felt the elevator sigh and descend slightly. I thought it was the machine reflecting my emotion or giving a beckoning call similar to Steppenwolf’s “why don’t you come with me little girl on a magic carpet ride.”

To my dismay, I found the sigh was more of a groan and the descent was a prelude to operational failure. See, while I was locked on the essence of desire, I did not glimpse the delegation for M.O. as they swallowed my negative space.

By M.O. I am using the now politically correct term Morbidly Obese. They were of the rare corpulent persuasion. The same affiliation that we often joshingly make reference to when speaking about the adventures of a man some would call JD Crane.

Now enters the rhetorical question I have had all day. No, not the one of why the Fates tease me. I know they are shrewd and enjoy my suffering. My question is “How do pudgy people packed like pachyderms permeate perfume o’ poultry?” The answer I do not wish to know for I fear it has something to do with osmosis.

For some reason I remembered the Bulwer-Lytton contest for the worst opening lines. Specifically, I remembered for its weirdness the line “Jennifer stood there, quietly ovulating.”  I stood there pitching tent. That was the case, at least, until my senses were fully overcome. The wafting smell of fowl plugged my nose and mouth. The heaviness and sweatiness from the plurality of plump blocked me in and suffocated my sense of touch. The alarms warning of possible demise rang out as the doors slowly closed. 

But what a sight they did close on. Voi belli. Voi dio femminile Voi bagascia voi potreste fare il mio inizio di giorno così tanto più meglio appena ottenendo nell'elevatore.

You lovely. You goddess. You bitch, you could have made my day start so much better by just getting into the elevator.

* Prophet