I could spot them in the elevator.
The doors close, it’s almost an hour after quitting time, but they’re still maniacally typing on their blackberries. Their thumbs are blurs. I imagine the creepy thumb muscles they are developing.
I have an iPhone. I type on it occasionally. Not like they’re doing. Like starving Ethiopians scratching for rice grains. I look at my feet in the elevator on the long ride down from ninth floor. If I look at them I might roll my eyes, so I don’t look. I’m polite, you know.
Elevators and doorways are odd in this building. Men will go to great lengths to let a woman go first. Even women are a little hesitant to go running through the elevator door first, demuring to other women.
I find this very annoying. Get the hell off the elevator.
So out I march, nominating myself alpha female, thereby releasing her and then him, the two typing fools. But I know my lead won’t last. I don’t want it. I don’t walk fast. In fact, I am the slowest walker I know. You’re going to have to get over it, this is my top speed, my legs are long but they have a nerve problem. So they suck. And today, they hurt.
Knowing this, and also guessing that fast typers are probably fast walkers, I stop and pretend to fool with something in my purse while they both go speeding by. It is then that I recognise her. She’s on my floor, works for my company. She’s a tailgater. She walks unnaturally fast, like a senior at one of those mall-walking classes, hips swinging unnaturally. Her hips look even more odd because she wears hootchie pants that give her a wedgie. How do you find 20 pairs of pants that all give you a wedgie? I do not ask her, but I stare at her creepy butt all the time and am waiting for the call from HR.
She clearly hates my guts as she lingers too close behind me, then passes by me everyday on the way to the printer. There’s also a sniff that she is more important than I am. Because she has to walk fast, she’s just that important. I am good with that. I would like to be less important. Maybe then I would get less emails and work a little less hard. Yeah, I am good with her being more important, totally. I slow up. Maybe I’ll start forwarding my voicemails to her.
Him, I don’t know. It strikes me that he is from another floor.
They’re off and I catch a sideways glance and I finish fake-rifling through my purse. The two of them are practically bumping hips racing each other to the outside door, trying to get to their cars.
As they approach the outer door, I inwardly groan. Because I remember what happens next. Rushing typing girl bangs through door first, followed by rushing typing man. But RTM realizes there’s another girl following him, so he has to hold the door. Any gentlemanly qualities this act might impart are shot straight to hell by the look he gives me. “Will you hurry up?” he is clearly asking.
Jackass, you’re the one trying to be nice, not me. Clearly not me. Because I saw this coming, and I’m not hurrying the hell up. I got bum legs, yo. Bite me.
“Thanks, you shouldn’t have,” I say. Really.