Elev-ain’t What You Expected
My apartment has a very old, creaky elevator with a telephone inside. One day, I’m coming home with a load of groceries when, unexpectedly, the telephone begins to ring. Mystified, I answer it.
It’s a telemarketer. He would like to know if I’m satisfied with my current telephone service provider.
Me: “I, uh… How did you get this number?”
Telemarketer: “That’s not important right now. Are you satisfied with your current telephone provider?”
Me: “I just… I think you might have the wrong number.”
Telemarketer: “Why?”
Me: “…This is an emergency telephone. In an elevator. I think, if you wanted to talk to anyone, it’d be the landlord.”
Telemarketer: “It’s a… what?”
Me: “An emergency telephone. In an elevator.”
Telemarketer: “Oh.”
Me: “Yes.”
Telemarketer: “…”
Me: “…”
Telemarketer: “…Are you sure?”
Me: “…Yes.”
Telemarketer: “Oh.”
Me: “…”
Telemarketer: “…”
The slow elevator finally reached my floor, and the bell dinged.
Me: “Uh, this is my floor, so I’ve got to go.”
Telemarketer: “Oh.”
Me: “…”
Telemarketer: “…”
Me: “Uh… bye.”
And I hung up the phone and left because, well, as fascinating as it was listening to a telemarketer quietly hyperventilate, it was my floor, and I needed to get my groceries home.