Just. Don't. Look.

The elevators at the building where I work are terrible. They are without a doubt the slowest-moving transport devices I have ever been in. I could hop up the stairs on one foot faster than the elevator could take me. And I would, too, if building management would unlock the fucking stairwell doors.

But that is neither here nor there. I'm not here today to discuss our crap elevator system. I'm not here to bitch and moan about how endless every trip to and from our floor becomes. I'm not here to call our building management neglectful and inappropriately lax for doing nothing about it. I'm not here for that.

I am here to talk about Tricia.

Tricia works on an upper floor here at our building. (I have changed her name - not to protect the innocent, but rather to protect myself. And you.) On occasion I have the pleasure of riding the elevator with Tricia. As you now know, this takes a very long time. Tricia is a mad, mad woman. (The first mad as in "angry," the second mad as in "insane.") She is probably in her late thirties, ties her wild red hair back in a loose knot, and sort of has the body shape of Danny Divito as The Penguin in Batman Returns. If I had to guess, I'd say she has Batman Returns on VHS and fancies herself more the Pfeiffer-as-Catwoman type. She is wrong.

Tricia comes to work with a backpack. It's a vivid purple backpack that has wheels and an extending handle, which I find sort of odd in a standard-sized backpack. Unless it's my three-year-old's backpack - which, I should note, also happens to be shaped like a giant frog.

Anyway. Tricia's backpack always looks remarkably empty and saggy, save the two full bottles of Coke she keeps in the side mesh pockets. I have never seen her with this backpack on her actual back. Rather, she pulls it around like she's at O'Hare. Always empty. Always with two full Coke bottles at the sides. She drives me nuts.

This is all pre-conversation. So, I guess it's fair to say that any time I actually talk to her, I'm already a little on edge. Then, to make matters worse, she's always really grumpy about her work or the building or her life or something, and she feels the need to grumble about it nonstop.

That, and she stands really close to me.

So. I walk into our building this morning, and there she is. With her tiny, empty, purple, pull-along backpack-n-cola. We are waiting with a few other people from our building, mumbling about the elevators/tombs. Tricia is talking with another woman on the other side of our small lobby, and, despite still being engaged in a conversation with this other woman, she walks across the floor and stands unbelievably close to me. I'm not kidding - like three inches away. Maybe two. She's still talking to the woman but now has to yell because she's twenty feet away from her. I can feel her breath. I can hear her heartbeat. Why is she over here?? Perhaps she's trying some kind of freak-meld with me. But it won't work! I flee! Well, I shuffle over a couple of feet. It's too early for this.

About 45 minutes later our elevator arrives, and we pile in. Everyone is going to the second floor. Except my sweet friend and me. Dear, sweet Tricia. She's actually in a very good mood this morning, not at all angsty, so I'm hopeful that our journey will be without conversation or event.

On the way up, she finishes her conversation with the other woman, who looks like she would rather wait an additional half hour for the second elevator than be in this one now.

"Well, at least we're not all talking about the weather!" Tricia remarks. There is general grinning and shifting among the other passengers. "But it IS nice, isn't it!" she continues. "I mean that sunshine! It makes me want to sing!"

All of us - maybe five people - look up at the exact same time in horror, all of us thinking she just might do it. Just then, the elevator lurches. I am confident we are going to be stuck here for the day, that we might have to take serious action and kill her to save ourselves. But, no, it continues its slow crawl up the building. The lurch, however, was enough to make Tricia forget whatever nightmarish song was in her head and we silently reach the second floor.

Everyone else gets off, and I give a little pitiful wave as the doors hiss closed. We move up towards the fourth floor, and all is quiet. Too quiet.

Look, we've all been there. There are those times when you know, you KNOW, all you need to do to survive a particular situation is not look. Keep your eyes down. But, it was so quiet. And I could feel her looking at me. I knew that all she needed was a quick visual cue... and all I needed to do was NOT FUCKING LOOK. I was like Space Ghost in a death ray. I said to myself in that struggling voice, "can't... keep... eyes... down! MUST... NOT... LOOOOOOOOK...... AHHHHRRRRGHHHHHHH!!!!!" Crap.

I look up at Tricia. Just for an instant. Just for a mili-instant. I don't even crack a grin. I do nothing but adjust my eyes ever so slightly to meet hers. A nano-instant, at most.

"I'm doing musicals now!" she half-yells at me, eyes wide and glistening.

"Oh. Like plays?" I ask.

"Yes! Musical plays! With songs!"

"That's great. Good for you. That must be fun." Fucking elevator! Fucking building management!!

"Professional musicals!"

"Oh? Great."

"Yeah. You know, they sell tickets. I'm in the chorus. It's in Indiana."

"What show are you doing right now?"

"Oh. I forget the name."

I laugh a little. I mean, how could I not? "Oh, dear. Well don't let the director know!"

"Right. She wouldn't be pleased with that! I'll remember when I look at the script. I'll remember before tonight! I'm not worried!"

DING!

Ah! We're there! I move to the door. But, of course, it takes about five more seconds to actually open. Now, I'm standing right in front of it, and therefore once again about three inches from Tricia.

"Do you like musicals? Who doesn't?" she asks. God, she's so CLOSE to me.

I answer as I exit, but I haven't given the doors much of a chance to open, so I bash both arms on the way out. "Sure do, ouch, bye!" I bolt down the hall.

I shake it all off as I dig for my keys. See, I've become increasingly sensitive to people getting in my personal space over the last couple of years. I don't know if its me just getting older, or people just getting closer. It may be that I'm more protective by nature, being a parent now. In any case, I don't like it. Granted, I love it when it's my wife giving me a hug, or my daughter climbing my neck. That's the kind of space invasion I could take a lot more of. But, I don't like it when it's Tricia. I don't like it when its in an elevator. And I definitely don't like it when the topic is Indiana musicals.

I sit down at my desk, boot up my computer and massage my arms. I reach for a pen and post-it and make a note to talk to the maintenance man about getting a key to those stairwells. ASAP.