Elevator Pitch
DING!
The elevator doors open with a thunk and I shuffle forward pushing the kids in front of me. My arms ache, straining from carrying several items at once. The boy, eleven, is courteous enough to take one thing from me to lighten my burden. Insisting that her hands are full, the seven-year-old grips her half empty soda bottle with two hands as if it were made of concrete. They begin arguing again for the third time since we left the hospital room thirty-seven seconds ago.
“I’m pushing the button!” the girl says.
“No, you said your hands were full! I’ll push it,” counters the boy.
“Someone just push the stupid 1 and stop fighting!” I think that I have ended it, but no such luck. Lifting into my esophagus, my stomach signals that we are descending. The overwhelming odor of hospital disinfectant causes my stomach to lurch more than the elevator. My two charges are squabbling under their breath and are sure that I can’t hear them.
Look around. Small shove.
Glance my way. Bigger shove.
The boy has his school pencils out. Five of them. Why they are in his hand and not in his backpack is known only to him. Then his sister finds outs. He pokes her in the side with four sharpened ends and an eraser that didn’t get the memo to face the other way during the attack.
“Ow!”
In retaliation, she is quick to strike. Slapping the pencils from his hand while simultaneously tattle-tells on him. She is an impressive example of multi-tasking. The pencils are scattered about the elevator, both kids are shoving and the echoes of their war cries ring in my ears.
DING!
Oh shit. We’re at the bottom floor already. The doors open with the same thunk and there is old curmudgeon waiting on the other side. He does not look at all amused.
“Pick them up! Stop fighting! This is our floor!” I shout at them and push them out of the elevator at the same time. Glancing at the 5 on the side of the elevator exit, I look down to make sure we have all of our belongings. When I raise my head I am confused. Why does the lobby look like the seventh floor now? The 5 pushes its way forward from the back of my mind and slaps me in the frontal lobe.
“Dad, I think we got off on the wrong floor,” comes from behind me somewhere. I can only assume it’s Captain Obvious arriving just in the nick of time to save the day.
“Ugh! You guys made us get off on the wrong floor!” I am the text book definition of exasperated.
“It’s not my fault,” the girl chimes in.
“Yes it is,” I fire back.
“How?”
“You smacked the pencils out of my hand! I was just minding my own business.”
“You were poking her. I saw it. So it’s both of your faults.” Thinking I’ve settled it once again I press the button to call the elevator. The brushed aluminum is cold against the tip of my finger. The ring around the button lights up and the kids give me a hurt look. Presumably for not letting them push the button.
After an eternity…
DING!
We pile in. Single file like lemmings. The acrid vapors hit my nostrils and I keep my stomach in check this time. Staring at the design in the elevator door, I lose myself in thought for a few floors. I hear a shuffle and cough. Then an impossibly tiny voice speaks in an almost whisper.
“Not my fault.”
“Oh my god, are we still on this?” I ask.
“I’m willing to take some of the blame, but it’s not all me.” The boy is using his lawyer tone. He gets like this when he thinks he’s right. I imagine him straightening a tie that’s not really there and then standing on a soap box, ready to address the ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
“It’s your fault too, Dad.”
“How is it my fault?”
“You’re the one that told us to get off the elevator.”
There may be some truth to his argument, but I am not ready to concede the point. The girl starts to open her mouth, but I shoot her the look and she clamps it back shut again. This is between us now. Mano y mano. This kid wants to wear the big boy pants now, eh? I strike back with my best Dad Logic.
“First of all, if you two had been behaving yourselves none of this would have happened. You were poking her; she slapped you, which in turn distracted me from knowing which floor we were on. The blame still lies squarely on your shoulders.”
“Actually, it’s 25% mine, 25% hers, 25% yours and 25% the man’s fault that called the elevator to the fifth floor.”
I hate it when he says “actually”. It means he thinks he is correcting me. I roll my eyes and mentally recite part of the serenity prayer.
“Look, you goobers started this whole thing. I don’t have to take blame for any of it.” I end the sentence by slashing the air with my hand as if to cut the conversation off.
“Dad, you always tell me that when you think that you are right you can go back and look at it from a different angle and find out you’re actually wrong.”
There’s that word again. I don’t have time to deal with it. I’m too busy trying to pick my chin up off the floor. I don’t know what surprises me more; the fact that he listened to me for once, or the fact that I really said something that profound.
I look at my offspring with watery eyes. My little diplomat. Without any coercion he makes the right decisions. He man ups and takes blame for his mistakes. Fighting for justice is important to him. He’s eleven and more of man than anyone else I know. Patting him on the shoulder, my heart swells with pride. I’ve lost the conviction to continue our debate.
Almost.
“I don’t have to follow the rules because I’m soooo awesome.”
“Daaaaad!”
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