Survival of the fittest: Man vs. Towers’ elevators

By and large, living in the Towers is not a normal experience. As I am typing this, I’m in my… By and large, living in the Towers is not a normal experience. As I am typing this, I’m in my room, some fifteen stories above Fifth Avenue, in a giant tube wedged between two other towers.

Yup, I live in our very own, very loveable Tower B. The B, in case anybody is wondering, stands for better than living in A or C.

They say that Towers, unlike a lot of the other residence halls, has a sense of community. I won’t disagree with that statement, but it’s not because we “Towerites” are loving, caring, amiable people. We are brought together by a common enemy: the elevators.

There is no consensus of where “upper towers” begin and “lower towers” end, but scholars maintain that the boundary is somewhere above the seventh floor. Above that critical point, residents are stranded, wholly dependent on the elevators to get to their destinations. Taking the stairs at this point will result in a) a profound sense of stupidity, if one is going down or b) heart failure, if one is climbing up. So we wait, diligently, minute after minute, day after day, for the elevator.

When I first moved in, I was naive. With an enormous sense of self importance, I’d push the button, and “call for the elevator.” Hah. I soon realized, with that sinking feeling in my stomach that I often experience after eating campus food, that no mortal could “call for the elevator.” Rather, the elevator graces you with its presence – chooses you – and not the other way around.

And because getting an elevator is unlikely, nay, impossible, those endowed with the gift of elevator are seldom eager to share with their compatriots. Over time, Tower residents have developed subsequently aggressive tactics that make elevators more exclusive than country clubs.

The longtime favorite is the “close” button. I have yet to meet a fellow rider who, upon entering the elevator, didn’t press the “close” button like his life depended on it. With a combination of luck and button-pressing skill, one can get on an empty elevator, slam the doors shut, and effectively trap aspiring individuals in the lobby. Achieving “Single Elevator Status” is an extremely arduous task, and only the masters have been able to accomplish it.

More often than not, a desperate individual will thrust a limb – or body, more likely – between the closing door and – curse them – force the doors open, despite the best efforts of the button presser. In the real world, the second individual might feel offended, resentful or angry. In the warped world of elevator deprivation, the two become immediate allies and collude to exclude the other aspiring individuals. I’ve never been on the receiving end of an elevator rejection, but I hear it’s terrible.

Once aboard an elevator with closed doors, passengers employ what is affectionately known as the “two-finger jab,” in which an individual simultaneously presses the “Lobby” and “close” button, trying to bypass every floor between him and his destination. A popular alternative is the repeated button push. Whether or not the aforementioned techniques are effective is a popular conversation topic in Towers.

But a life in Towers, as is evident in this article, is not one for the faint of heart. In desperate times, I have seen people resort to desperate measures. Which one of us, perhaps late for class or in meeting a friend, has not pushed both the “up” and “down” buttons? I ask, which one of us has never hijacked an upward-bound elevator, flipped the switch at the top, and changed its direction downward? Whose memories among us are unstained with the memory of hating the third-floor elevator riders?

Oh, how the Fates are cruel! We are not proud of the life that was chosen for us. Often, we cannot look at our elevator mates without seeing in their own eyes the evil that lurks behind our own. So we avoid eye contact and maintain our silence, perhaps staring at the changing numbers or pondering the latest stain that adorns the elevator floor.

Morpheus once told Neo, “This is a war and we are soldiers. What if tomorrow the war could be over? Isn’t that worth fighting for? Isn’t that worth dying for?”

Not really. I think I’ll live off campus next year.

Ravi is also known as Emperor Lord. You can beg for an elevator at rrp10@pitt.edu, but he’ll probably just laugh at your misery or write a column about it.