C’mon!
I don’t think this elevator could be any slower, I mean gosh man. A minute of waiting equals to an hour in my mind, especially when I really really need to be somewhere. It’s not just the elevator in the science building either, it’s the one in the humanities building, the student center, the computer building, the library---slow elevators are everywhere.
Can I blame that on my university being an HBCU and thus not having the funds to build efficiently fast elevators? Or that we’re a tiny bit reminiscent of the 1950’s with those weird air ventilation thingies that they (whoever they is) still have sprouting out of the ceiling like an ugly alien baby?
Slow elevators will be the death of me.
Or my psyche, but honestly if you’re psyche is gone and you’re certifiably crazy then you are sorta kinda dead---brain dead that is.
Imagine me right now if you will slightly foaming at the mouth (I kid) with this dazed expression on my face and my arms crossed tightly against my little girls and my right foot tapping impatiently. There’s a scent of dirty water and bleach mixed together that doesn’t smell pleasant in the least, it’s like they’re fighting together and the dirty water is like ‘bish don’t kill my vibe’ and it’s going all kung foo on the bleach. It’s winning. No…no…it has won. Indefinitely. I wrinkle my nose at the smell and focus on my warped image reflected from the metal surface of the elevator doors. There’s a black girl, or maybe she’s a woman depending on who see’s but in reality all I see is a girl who doesn’t look a day over 18 (though she’s 22) clad in a tight grey graphic tee (because she’s completely boss like that) a pair of grey sweats (because today is not the day) flat sneakers (because they’re comfy) and an afro puff that reaches proudly to the high heavens (because she imagines that she’s totally afro-centric and in tune with who she is).
Then there’s the expression on her face…or my face because I have this strange fondness of referring to myself in the third person----it’s gotten worse. My mouth moves slowly to this mindless song that I can’t get rid of, probably something crappy like a Future song…Bugatti maybe. Eyes? Yep still glazed. Foot? It’s no longer one foot, but two and now I’m shuffling them from side to side doing this bouncy dance while nodding my head to Bugatti and critically analyzing how Future got a deal so easily. Dude….deep voice much? He must eat cigarettes for breakfast.
Oooh ooooh and It’s hot too! It’s like somewhere between the mid 90’s and early hundreds outside and today of all days the a/c in the science building doesn’t want to cooperate. So correction: me nodding my head, moving my lips, arms crossed, bouncing and shuffling from side to side and sweating like a pig. What’s up with that expression anyway? How do pigs sweat exactly?
The wall behind me is brilliant white, it’s too sterile and it’s embossed which makes it worse. Sunlight drifting in from outside and the students passing through the hallway is the only form of life I’ve seen within the past minute, two minutes? Not long right? Yeah it wouldn’t be so long if I wasn’t so dramatic.
I digress.
The digital number above the elevator glares in a brilliant red four. That’s good, it’s progress since it was on three for like a minute. The longest minute everrrrrrrrrr.
I have somewhere to be! I’ve yet to make my schedule for next semester and if I don’t do it today then I am screwed because this is the last day of class and I have a final in what an hour? No I have two finals…or is that three?
“Ugh,” I wipe my cheek in exasperation and because I swear I can see fluid from my brain leaking through my scalp and sliding down the right side of my face.
My palm comes back dry. I cross my arms again and continue my Bugatti-Bounce-Shuffle.
There’s a sound of approaching footsteps behind me, not that I’m concerned, after over three years of being a college student, and an extremely awkward one at that, I’ve learned to ignore people for the sake of my stability. I’m just not a people person. So I ignore them and hope that they don’t take me ignoring them as a sign of me being bougie.
Whoever they are (because my eyes are still locked on my figure which has ceased its bounce shuffle) they stop beside me, on my right side and sigh, “C’mon.”
Dude. Dude.
My heart…..implodes.
This guy is so indefinitely pronounced in my right peripheral that I don’t need to guess who he is. He’s none other than my drool worthy crush. Mr. GQ. Mr. Tall Light and Handsome. The guy who had all the ‘hunnies’ eating out the palm of his silent hand that first week of class….and he’s standing beside me. The same guy I don’t speak to at all but have like four of five classes with? The cerebral damage is even greater now.
Hurry…for the love of God hurry.
I can’t function when I’m next to this guy. He’s suave in a silent way, handsome in a I-don’t-have-to-part-my-lips type of way and he’s nice too. I’ve talked to him three times in all and every time he’s been nice and smiled.
He has a great smile. Angels scoop him up whenever he smiles.
Should I say something to him?
My throat is dry and my eyes are locked on the elevator doors. My body is tense and my brain is still leaking.
This guy is handsome, like the kind that you can’t give justice to just by describing and top that off he’s much older than me. He’s twenty-nine going on thirty, but I kid you not he does not look at day over twenty five.
But what does twenty-five look like?
IT LOOKS NOTHING LIKE WHAT I PICTURE THIRTY LOOKING LIKE.
“Slow elevator right?” this is what I say instead of the usual, “Hey what’s up? How are you doing?”
Mr. Fine as can be chuckles, “Man I’ll say. All these elevators are slow as hell.”
“Right?” I offer again and laugh nervously.
Since he’s been here he’s been looking at the elevator too, but in my peripheral (because if I look at him full on I will melt) his body turns towards me and he crosses his long arms with the muscles bulging slightly (because home boy works out) and he stares at me with his mesmerizing hazel eyes. He has drowsy eyes, dopey almost, but it’s like….a lull, they’re soothing and that’s what’s so bad about them. The last time I looked into his eyes I forgot I was doing it and somebody had to snap me back to reality because I’d fallen asleep with my eyes open while looking at his eyes.
I think he’s a vampire.
“How are you doing today little lady?”
I melt. Like totally and completely melt because even though ‘little lady’ is an archaic term used by older (and older-older men) there’s something gentleman like and seductively southern about it.
And guys just shouldn’t do that to po’ lil’ ole me because I can’t handle attention like that. I’m a spaz and I’m proud about it because it makes me different. I’m a lovable spaz with a strange sense of humor and a shy smile and sarcastic come backs but when it comes to guys I’m a complete ditz.
If I can’t handle guys my own age, then how can I possibly go toe to toe with a guy who’s almost a decade older than me? Some people say that age doesn’t matter blah blah blah…but—they’re wrong. Dead wrong.
Stop lying you liar.
Age aint nothing but a number—chile please. Get that outta here! Right now. This second. This instant!
At the same time I like it, it’s……alluring? Does that make sense? I’m such a Green Girl when it comes to things like this that I kinda go off the deep end and drown until I mentally save myself. So before I can completely go into critical analyzer mode I mentally pinch myself and remind that brain that he’s just a guy and I’m a girl so there’s no reason why I can’t talk to him without drooling buckets.
Only this requires me to actually acknowledge him. Look him in the face I mean.
Fake it til ya make it.
I swivel to the right and give him something, a smile, half of a smile, I can’t remember, “I’m great how are you?”
“A lil tired actually, “ oh no…I feel a conversation coming on, “I got home late and---“
I don’t want to hear all of this, but I nod and smile sweetly. He’s talking to me, that’s good.
Right?
And just when I’m about to give a witty joke the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Three people walk out, all with their eyes on the floor.
This elevator is a bastard.
“Finally,” his voice….I see angels lifting him up.
I step into the elevator first and try to keep a respectable distance from him, what I actually do is cower into the right corner and pray that I don’t look like a psycho.
He steps in too and leans against the back wall a few inches away from me, his head turns to the right where I am, “You ready for this final at 2?”
I try to control my breathing, “Um not really” nervous laugher, “But I will be,” tuck piece of hair behind of ear that doesn’t exist.
“Cool, hey nice shirt by the way,” I blush and look down at it, there’s all these juvenile symbols on it like a iridescent peace sign, a white colored dove and the words Peace, Love, and Hope repeating itself in the background.
“Thanks. Nice….” Everything, “shoelaces.”
Doi! I resist the Homer face palm and bite my lip to hold back my nervous smile as he laughs, “That’s funny.”
It’s not really.
Oh my god why isn’t this elevator moving?
Did we even press the button?
“Looks like we forgot to do something,” how did the both of us forget to press a button? I walk over and jab at the circular four and then walk back.
“Yeah, I guess finals are making us forget stuff,” he laughs again, God I love his laugh.
“Definitely,” why is this handsome man still talking to me?
“any plans for the summer?”
Like a wedding? In Europe? With you?
“Summer school, you?”
“I’m staying here for the most part and working full time, but I plan on traveling to Florida for a week. My mom is bugging me about visiting her,” I’m looking at his face now and his lips spread into another smile, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”
I take it that he’s good with his mother. Always cool.
“Sounds like a plan. Where do you work?”
“If I tell you I might have to shoot you.” Wink, smile.
Gah, I need to get out more.
And just when I’m about to get completely comfortable and say something witty like, ‘oh? How is Chippendales working for you?’, the elevator opens.
Are you kidding me?
And that chance I just had? Yeah it’s gone. Because he slides out and I do too and he walks backwards and gives me the warmest-coolest-most-laid- back-I’m-gonna-make-your-panties-wet kinda smile, “Alright, I’ll catch ya later Jessie.”
Jessie, is that my name?
I slurp some drool back and give him a dopey smile and a half wave, “Later Mike.”
He disappears around the corner and I pay homage to his long legs and amazing calves that he’s chosen to reveal by way of basketball shorts.
“That man is fi-yah.” I say to no one in particular.
I’m a little crestfallen too, it’s like I’ve gotten nowhere but somewhere at the same time. I didn’t get his number, his social security digits; his face book….all I got was a two-three minute conversation about absolutely nothing.
And I’m walking on air.
I’m two things at once. But that’s ok; it just means that I’m in tune with my emotions and all that junk.
I roll my shoulders and straighten my back up because there’s nothing I should be sad about really. I remind myself that I’ve got it, even though I don’t know what ‘it’ is and I round the opposite corner headed to my destination.
It’s crazy though, I’ve made up in my mind that I’m not going to blatantly pursue this guy and yet I’m still thinking I wonder what he’s going to wear in our dream wedding.