Man on the 12th Floor
He lives on the 12th floor, and I don’t know his name. I know almost nothing about the man on the 12th floor, but somehow too much. It must be some kind of fate because every
morning I see the man with the drained out gray strands of hair and stereotypical old person glasses that are ten times too big for his worn, anxious face. His long skinny legs have too much room in his dull, worn khakis. The gold bar in the small but pleasant elevator must be his best friend because he clings on to it like his life depended on it. Like he was ready to jump out of that elevator at any time and cross the finish line of the automatic slow door he can’t wait to pass. But where does he have to be? I mean he never walks out with a tired briefcase, or a helpless old dog. It’s just him. Every morning at 7:45. He never says a word to us besides the typical morning grumble, which I can sometimes detect is a groaned version of “mornin’.” But that is the farthest we have ever got. A pin drop would be approached as loud, to break the awkward silence to this never-ending elevator ride. Everyone might as well be watching a dog walk on its hind legs, as we all stare at the screen with the numbers on it that is going abnormally slow. 8, 7, 6, 5, any day now… come on elevator hurry up, we are all secretly thinking to ourselves. 4, 3, 2, 1 finally… we are finally here. But before I can even blink, the man from the 12th floor has already sprinted out of the elevator, to the capacity of an old man’s speed. By the time I get out, he is already halfway down the lobby hall. He lives on the 12th floor, and I am not going to see him again, until tomorrow morning at 7:45.