The clan of the elevator

One of the hazards of being me is that sometimes even the most ordinary and mundane activities strike me as significant - although I am rarely able to communicate exactly what that significance is.
Take, for example, riding elevators.
Not long ago I go on an elevator in a rather fancy hotel with another guy who, like me, was going to his room. I punched the button for my floor, and then he inserted his room key into the special slot that gave him access to one of the top floors, "secure" floors that implied some kind of status for being able to stay there.
In fact, I said as much.
"Wow, big timer, huh?" I said, trying to sound pleasant and funny; after all, this guy actually looked like he could have been someone important and I didn't want to blow the chance at what could be a meaningful conversation, the way I did when I found myself riding an elevator with Jesse Jackson in 1989.
He laughed, and said, "All it means is that I have stayed in this hotel too many times and they reward me with some kind of upgrade."
Nice guy.
But it got me thinking about the mini-universe of elevators. Or if not "universe,'' then mini-culture.
By that I mean I have started watching the way people interact - or don't interact - when on an elevator. It's interesting, because rarely are so many human beings confined in such a small space for a singular purpose (either going up or going down).
There is a certain immediate sizing up of people on an elevator, just as I did. We look for signs - the room key that allows access to a floor denied the rest of us, for example. But maybe it's the way people are dressed, the way they carry themselves. There are people who immediately move to the back but stay in the middle, as opposed to the people who move to the back and one of the corners or the people who move to the side but stay near the front or the people who stay near the front, blocking others from either getting on or off the elevator without somehow getting around this person.
There are the people who stand still and keep their eyes above the elevator door. These are the people who focus on the changing floor numbers. It can't be because they're afraid of missing their floor; the elevator will stop if they've pushed the proper button. But it's a way of having something to do, of finding something to stay occupied.
Then there are the people who look at the floor, or check their phones, or nervously glance around at every one else on the elevator before settling on "their" spot.
There are people who close their eyes. I have no idea why.
Sometimes people get on an elevator and feel the need to establish themselves immediately. They move away from the other people if they can. They check their watch to indicate they are on a schedule. They grimace, as if thinking something really important.
Then there might be that overly friendly person who decides to talk - not to anyone specifically, but to everyone in general.
And who hasn't gotten on an elevator and found themselves in a group where everyone knew each other, but not you? I was on an elevator in New Orleans and everyone that got on was laughing and talking about meeting in some room and ordering food or bringing drinks. It sounded fun, and I'd like to have been included, but of course I wasn't. I was an outsider - the proverbial 'alone in a crowded room.'
I remember a story that has been told about many people who fit the description, but I first heard it about Wilt Chamberlain, one of the most dominant athletes of all-time. He was over 7-foot tall, massive, a world class basketball player who also was a collegiate track athlete and later a world-class beach volleyballer; he remains the only man in professional basketball history to score 100 points in a game.
The story goes that two well-to-do women in New York City, in their furs and diamonds, stepped on an elevator with Wilt, who was holding his rather large dog on a leash. They didn't know who he was, and so they stepped aside and away from him. After the elevator door closed and they started moving, Wilt barked out "Sit!" and the women immediately sat on the floor of the elevator.
They heard Wilt start chuckling in that deep, bass laugh he had. "Ladies,'' he said, "I was talking to my dog."
The more I watch, the more I realize how people get on elevators and arrange themselves not only on conscious but also unconscious patterns of deference. There are unconscious arrangements based on gender, size, age, apparent status based on dress or attitude, desirability, sometimes even race or perceived threat.
And with every new person that gets on the elevator, who joins into the mix, the previously established order of the elevator changes. As people get on and off, it changes the atmosphere, the order, the balance of the elevator.
This is how we are as human beings in our larger cultural interaction, isn't it? We make snap judgments on how best to get along for however long we're together.
Most of us live off these judgments. We express our preferences instantly, without first engaging in discussion or research or any of the accepted means. It's just done.
Culture evolves that way. The predictability of culture comes only after we've already established the unconscious order, and that order is then - unless changed by discourse or research - passed on until it becomes an accepted part of the cultural order.
We can say we're all the same and believe we're all the same, but the truth is, we're all aware - sometimes painfully so - of inherent differences between us. And no amount of re-education or philosophy or religious belief ever changes that, no matter how much we insist otherwise.
They key is learning how to adapt as we ride along, to fit together in a cohesive community that learns how best to get along.

Or maybe it's just riding on an elevator and thinking too much.
Oh - and here's one more for you. When the elevator doors close, and I'm all alone (or almost alone), I've been known to do what my family calls "the elevator dance." You'll never see it; but if you're in a certain elevator in St. Louis, ask my buddy Grant McGowan. He's done it a time or two, too.