Elevators: Awkward Moments at Four Seconds Per Floor

For nearly two millenniums, staircases mocked the American way by offering only moderate convenience in vertical travel. While they allowed our ascent to the tops of the Great Lighthouse, the Eiffel Tower and countless bell towers and roadside motels, stairs require a taxing physical effort to continuously climb and a taxing mental effort to adhere to social norms and not scramble up them on all fours.

In the 17th century, man finally began besting stairs with people-moving elevation systems. Though the basic pulley system likely dates to Roman architect Vitruvius in 236 BC, elevators did not become prevalent until the late 1800s. With the first residential elevator in 1929, the eradication of multiple flights of stairs became a reality to people the world over. Truly, the ability to replace stairs with creaky rope boxes must be looked upon as one of the great innovations of our time.

Little did those early elevator scientists know, this ease of travel would bring with it an entirely unforeseen and unfathomably potent consequence. With the advent of the elevator, the brute force of elevator awkwardness was unleashed on society. Awkwardness doubtless predates the stair, much less the elevator, but the strain of awkwardness brought upon by the elevator is as deep, unavoidable and incombatable as any mankind has faced before.

Awkwardness is a ubiquitous social disaster. It can be completely predictable; for example, a family reunion, the morning after, or the purchases of a used copy of Home Alone 2: Lost in New York and a box of Sno-Caps from the Blockbuster down the street. It can also strike with sudden and violent force, from the inexplicable earnest racism of an acquaintance to the stealthy approach of a homeless beggar.

But the awkwardness of an elevator ride is uniquely potent. It not only brings about the crushing silence of anti-conversationalism, it also harbors a range of heightened emotional states and envelops its victims in a sheet of devastating self-awareness. In addition, the varied, individualized and woefully undefined boundaries of elevator etiquette turn the brief commute into a breeding ground of faux pas.

The awkwardness works in many ways. It begins the second two or more distant acquaintances or strangers finish saying "which floor" and smiling. As the doors slide closed, so to does any hope of escape. If the typical response to an awkward situation is desperately wanting to get away, then the slow closing of those doors represents the manifestation of those very fears. The elevator acts as a literal representation of the inescapable nature of awkward interactions. So devastating is its power that an entire genre of music has been designed, unsuccessfully, to try and make the miserable experience more palatable. Unfortunately, there is still no cure.

Elevator etiquette typically involves not saying anything to a stranger. Anyone being approached in an elevator will immediately assume that the person approaching them is either a) hitting on them or b) mentally disabled. This rule seems simple enough, but can be quite painful in practice. Elevators are typically barren, silent and slow. This lack of stimuli amplifies every move, motion, or noise that one does make during the lift or decline. A simple sigh or cough goes from uninteresting to unavoidable in such situations. What's more, the rhythmic dings of floors gone by serve to remind everyone just how quiet the box is.

The brevity of the elevator ride adds greatly to its awkward potential. It's one thing to struggle for something to say with someone you've never met at a party, surrounded by other conversations and with a whole night to waste. It's a whole different animal when you are struggling for a conversation piece which will instantly be both engaging enough to matter and disposable enough to end within a floor or two. Basically, if there is any possible opportunity for a normal conversation, the window lasts only a split-second while the doors near their close and the buttons have just been pressed. Too early or too late, and the situation becomes impossible.

Possibly more excruciating is having a friend on an elevator ride in addition to a stranger. Conversation typically halts abruptly as the floor is chosen, and then all-our mental chaos hits. Should the conversation continue? Should we talk in hushed voices? Should the third party be included? Are we talking about something inappropriate? Any friendship undergoing an observed elevator ride falls victim to a complete, multi-level pattern of self-examination. And if one's companion fails to adhere to ones own distinguished set of elevator guidelines, the solidity of the friendship will doubtless be questioned for the remainder of the ride.

And that's just a three person ride. If three is a crowd, then a five-eight person elevator ride is a surrealist nightmare, rife with stereotypical characters making everything uncomfortable. There's the couple who whispers to each other, the guy who smells, the guy who looks really angry, the short woman in the back who exits as quickly as possible, the fat guy taking up too much space, the person in mid-cell-phone-conversation who loses their reception, and the absolutely mortified pre-teen with his parents. Everyone else on the ride attempts to remain silent and emotionless, staring robotically into the blinking lights which painstakingly detail the slow, steady path to escape from the Bradburian madness.

When the elevator mercifully reaches your floor, the exit is no less pained than the ride. There is always the risk of someone zoning out and getting off on the wrong. On descents, everyone will either attempt to escape simultaneously, or engage in a polite-off with other passengers, forcing shuffled half-steps and jump-arounds as everyone tries miserably to exit with their dignity intact. On ascending rides, whoever is getting off on the earliest floors always manages to make it to the back of the elevator and must shuffle past bristling passengers to make their escape.

There are truly few social surroundings more horrendous than the elevator. And yet, each day, millions of Americans subject themselves to this futuristic torture scenario for the sake of convenience. I propose a formula for measuring the cost of physical convenience vs. the cost of social discomfort in elevator/stair comparisons. I'm no math major, but I imagine the formula somewhat resembles this:

n = (x - y)/2

x = Number of floors from destination + hours past bedtime + number of alcoholic drinks consumed+ (body weight/number of sexual partners)/10 + 2(distance of stairwell from elevator) + distance of stairwell from destination + time elapsed since since last bowel movement.

y = Distance of elevator from destination + number of hours exercised per day + hours of sleep previous night

With distance being measured in feet and time measurements being rounded to the nearest minute and converted to decimals. If n < 20, the stairs should be used. If n> 20, the elevator should be used. Feel free to jot this formula down for use when considering your next upper-floor commute. One day, we will conquer the elevator and all its social negatives. Until that day, we must manage our fear and continue with our lives, as painful as this may be.