Thursday, April 12, 2001
At 1:30 I get in the elevator going up to the ninth floor. The cab is crowded with the usual 7th Avenue polygot: garment district salesmen, the working middle-class, a delivery guy, a few extant dot-commers.
A short black man with an Urban Fetch jacket, Urban Fetch shoulder bag and bicycle pants is the last to enter. The elevator is very crowded.
"Goddamn it!" scowls Mr. American Psycho, a WASPy, manicured suit going to the 14th floor. "Did you really need to push 5, 7, and 9?"
"I didn't push them," defends the delivery guy.
"Sure you didn't," mutters American Psycho. They're standing maybe eight inches apart. I'm directly behind them. Everyone is uncomfortably close and the tension is thick as wax.
Somebody gets out on the second floor. "Look man, I didn't push them. Maybe you pushed them."
American Psycho is rapidly losing whatever composure he once had. "Yeah right. I pushed it. I pushed it! Fuck you!"
The elevator stops on 5 and somebody else gets out. "See!" says the delivery guy. I didn't press five. Right, no apology. Just like I thought!"
"Let's not fight on the elevator," I politely interject. Nobody seems to hear me.
"I never said you pressed five!" lies American Psycho. "Who the hell are you? Do you ever want to come into this building again!?! Who the hell do you work for anyway?!?" Apparently American Psycho hasn't noticed that the delivery guy is a walking billboard for Urban Fetch.
The cab stops at 7 and the delivery guy gets off. "What's the matter with you? You're an asshole," he states plainly and accurately.
American Psycho is red-faced and exploding with rage. "Yeah, yeah? Well fuck you! FUCK YOU!! Mr. SHORT IN STATURE!!"
I got out at the ninth floor.
posted at 2:24 PM