On my first day as a cherub, laden with luggage and filled with blissful ignorance, I waited for the Jones Hall dorm elevator. And I waited. And waited.
The first words I ever said to another cherub were, “This thing is so slow.” She smiled, and we suddenly became united in the same community by the same struggles. It turned out you had to press the button twice for it to come. From then on, my elevator woes were always accompanied by the sweetness of laughter.
Being on the fourth floor, my floormates and I could either drag ourselves up three flights of stairs or brave the lift. Complaining about it became a pastime. We would hit the buttons and grumble about how lucky the second-floor residents were, or tap our feet and joke about the elevator being possessed.
One lecturer told us to always have an elevator pitch of ourselves ready to persuade an employer to hire us. For me, I had the span of an elevator ride to make a new friend. Luckily, the dorm elevator’s slothlike speed and constant stalling made my pitches easy. I had plenty of time to strike up a conversation, get someone’s contact information or even find a new source for an assignment.
The elevator’s buttons don’t work half the time. It shuts off at random. It has woken me up in the middle of the night with its harrowing, loud chimes.
Yet, I am thankful for its flaws. It incited many conversations and forced me to slow down in my busy day. These small moments brought me even closer to my fellow cherubs. When I return home, my perfectly operating elevator just won’t be the same.
