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?