THE GREAT GADFLY:

People Creep Me Out

"C'mon," he says, repeatedly tapping the CLOSE DOOR button. It finally shuts.

"See, as a human being, I like to think the power of my voice can command machines," he says.

I smile tentatively. "Yeah," I say.

He stares at me - the kind of stare that puts deer in headlights.

"I'm Bill," he says, sticking out a hand.

I reluctantly shake his hand and tell him my first name. He looks at me as if to say, "come ON."

I look at him as if to say, "have you considered professional help?"

"LAST NAME?" he says expectantly.

"Ummm..." and I tell him.

"How do you spell that?"

And so I spell it, looking at him the entire time as if he were a despotic psycho.

"See, you're going to the same floor as I am, and I like knowing who works on my floor."

Now, see, okay. If he were an attorney, I'd feel appropriately scrutinized and cut down to size. I don't mind doing the peon thing for the suits, if that's what charges their palm pilots. But Barney Fife here was clearly on the same office schlub strata as myself. Bill, Bill, Bill....

"Actually, I don't work on your floor. I'm running an errand," I say, then I tell him the department where I work.

"OHHHHH," Bill responds. "Well I gotta tellya, I wouldn't do what you guys do for a million dollars. No way."

I smile widely; a shit-eating grin, perhaps. "Well, that's good!" I chirp.

The doors open. I realize the elevator has skipped my intended floor entirely, and Bill had mistakenly (yet understandably) assumed I was taking the lift to his floor. He looked at me from the hallway with confused dismay as I stood still in the elevator, waiting for the relief of shutting doors.

Sartre was on to something: Hell is other people.