The Elevator

I think I know now what Frank Sinatra meant when he sang that he wanted to wake up in the city that never sleeps. He meant this place was never quiet. There's constant noise: airplanes, helicopters, cars honking (don't do it, says the sign, there's a $350 fine!) and hundreds and hundreds of air-conditioners create a buzz that's with you all the time. I crave silence. And have found one quiet place. The elevator. In these Manhattan apartment buildings, the elevator is a very special place. An institution. First of all, you've got a man living in there. He operates it. You never press buttons - unless you're a child fortunate enough to be buddies with him and then he lets you climb onto his tall chair and reach up to press the 'door close' button. Some people know the elevator men by name and have a friendly chat with them and some never speak to them.
The elevator man knows a lot about you and the building. After a few days, he remembered which floor I lived on. Which is great on Shabbat when all I have to do is get in the lift and say no more. No doubtful situation about me asking him to do the job. Still I get guilty and have a sense that my presence is a command in itself and maybe I should just walk up to the twelth floor...
The elevator man takes deliveries for you and delivers them to your door. He also takes bunches of keys from wives whose husbands have left without keys. He also comes to fix things in your flat, say when the toilet gets blocked and the downstairs neighbour starts complaining about a dripping ceiling.
But sometimes the elevator doesn't work. Then you get into an even more special elevator which is much much bigger and is probably meant for moving furniture. It doesn't even have a door so as you're flying up you can see all the floors rushing by. A bit scary, but it's a great system. I've never once had to walk up the stairs so far.