Dear Guy,
Just so we're clear: I saw you making a break for the elevator, juggling your briefcase and phone, wearing one sleeve of your jacket while the rest streamed out behind you like a tattered cape. I know that you heard the elevator's tinny bell ring out, prompting your Pavlovian reaction to hustle around the atrium before the doors closed again. I know that you know I saw your half-hearted, "hold the door!" wave, and that you thought any decent human being would wait for you without complaint.
But the thing is, I am not a decent human being. I'm kind of a bastard, you see, and I would have stopped at nothing to avoid sharing my elevator ride with you.
Please don't think that I was in some sort of hurry; my evening was quite free. I only had "strolling and/or lollygagging" penciled into my day planner. If I'd let you onto the elevator, I could have shown you just where I blocked out time that evening for "strolling and/or lollygagging;" it's right here, written, as I said, in pencil. At any rate, you should know that the thirty seconds (tops!) I saved by pretending not to notice the doors shutting on your face had no greater significance than simply guaranteeing me a solo ride down to the lobby.
"If you weren't in a hurry, why didn't you hold the doors?" you might ask. The answer is more complicated than you might think. You see, as a child, I was once trapped in an elevator in a hospital with my grandfather. The elevator was hung up between floors, and as Grampy fought for his life, I KNEW -- I'm sorry, I have to stop right there. None of that is true, at all. I just can't think of a way to say "I would prefer not to share my brief ride in this confined space with a sweaty, middle-aged businessman in a rush to monetize his synergistic value, or whatever it is you do" that doesn't sound petty.
Did I stop to consider your feelings? Yes, for a moment. Maybe you were rushing to your son's first baseball game. Maybe you had an appointment with a dominatrix and you were afraid she would charge you for two hours if you ran late. Maybe YOUR Grampy was dying, trapped in a hospital elevator (it's a possibility!) But, in the end, I decided that none of that was my problem. Hey, if your schedule is so disorganized that thirty seconds could make or break your life, then you've got bigger fish to fry than whether or not I held those doors, right?
If it's any comfort, you shouldn't take my lack of compassion personally. I can think of two, maybe three people in this whole building for whom I would have held those doors. And two of them are attractive women. I mean, SMOKIN' hot. Who's the third, you ask? That old guy who I think had a stroke a year or two ago. I may not be a decent person, but I am not a MONSTER.
In closing, I hope you can forgive me or, at least, understand my position. While the venomous glare you shot me as the doors closed tells me that it's unlikely, I hope in time you'll get over those thirty seconds that got away.
Best,
Jared
PS: My evening of strolling and/or lollygagging? SO worth it.
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