Dear
Kevin-in-the-elevator,
Yes, I am using
your real name. As told to me. Assuming you are real. Assuming I did not walk
around 14 floors – as directed by the guards, this is a very secure building,
with my large box of office supplies and binders with information on
buprenorphine – and down, around, past more guards (how secure if I don’t have
a badge yet?) – to end up on a not-real elevator in a not-real building.
But really,
Kevin, imagine my surprise when the elevator door opened – me and my not heavy
but awkward box, my colleague M with the dolly that refused to take corners
well; we took turns with that and the box – and there you were. I’ve called it
a folding chair when I tell this in person, but I don’t know what to say the
chair was – nicer than a lawn chair,
not folding, but the kind with spindly legs and textured plastic seat. I think.
Did you even have a cushion? It was the Metro paper folded underneath – the
free one. There’s very little light in the elevator.
We mentioned our
surprise upon seeing you, me and M. And you responded, “Oh, I’m new, I’ve only
been here since Tuesday.” It was Friday. Kevin, M and I had never taken the
freight elevator, alone or together; you seemed to assume we’d known your
predecessor. Or it was just another bad or awkward joke. She asked your hours.
We were shocked at the – constancy of them. Eight to six, you said. Hour lunch
break I assume. And every day. Who gets weekends? Or is there no health
department freight on weekends?(the buttons,
after all, are the pretty normal push-‘em kind, you know).
When we got back
on the elevator, I remembered your name – M was impressed. How many men living
in boxes does she know?
Name, man,
elevator.
 |
| Market, N'djamena, Tchad |
