Tamra’s inability to leave her desk on time causes her to run to the elevator and park on the buttons.
I tag along, just because I find it amusing.
The doors close.
“So what are you doing now?”
“Well,” she says, holding the Close-Door button, “I have a theory.”
“A theory! Tell me about it.”
She smiles. She suspects that I am teasing her – and in this, she is correct – but tells me anyway.
“It’s my theory,” she says, finger still on the Close-Door button, “that when I keep my finger on this button and don’t let it up, that the car won’t stop on another floor."
I stare at her.
"I’ll get to the lobby quicker,” she explains.
“So let me get this straight,” I say. “On the days that you are leaving late for your bus, you endeavor to keep the elevator to yourself for a full 47 floors.”
She nods. “That is correct.”
“So other people be hanged, you got a bus to catch?”
“Correct.”
And then she laughs.
I squint at her. “You know it doesn’t make a difference, right?”
She winks – winks! “I gotta lean into it, Pearl. I gotta lean just right, and then it works.”
“You are a superstitious little freak,” I offer.
She beams at me. “And we just rode down 47 floors without stopping once.” The doors open to the lobby, and she leaves me in her wake, power-walking toward the doors out onto Sixth, ready to throw herself at the two city-block walk to her stop. “And you’re welcome!”