Elevating Humanity
When a Jew, a Muslim, and an old lady walk into an elevator
This past Tuesday, I helped my parents move some furniture.
Sometime in the waning hours of the afternoon, I found myself bored into a slumbering autopilot, having gone from lazily realizing sandals aren’t the smartest footwear for such an occasion, to studying the geometric patterns of the apartment building’s elevator floor, to entering a mental screensaver mode.
The elevator lurched down and stopped at the lobby, and I nearly crushed my exposed toes with the metal dolly, which jolted me back to an alert, slightly annoyed consciousness. There entered a kind elderly lady and a young child, I guessed from instinct and peripheral vision. I hadn’t looked up, because it’s New York, and eye contact is just not a thing here.
The lady skirted past the dolly, while the kid stopped, his amorphous peripheral avatar suggesting a quizzical dilemma. I shifted the dolly as best I could, realizing there wasn’t much more than a few added inches of cramped conveyance for our trio.
At this point, I looked up, and realized the child was wearing a yarmulke and a private school uniform. I smiled at him reflexively, and he reciprocated, then replied with a sincere, “excuse me, please let me know if I’m bothering you” while retreating even further into his corner of our labyrinthine, albeit temporary, human Tetris arrangement. It didn’t make sense, but it did. Two people, in the same spot, feeling the exact opposite of entitlement. Mutual awkwardness ensued.
It was, though, the politest, sweetest gesture, and I did my best to reassure him, apologizing and regretting there wasn’t more room. Elevators are where friends are made, after all. I then glanced at the elevator control panel, and realized there was a small, handwritten sign I hadn’t earlier noticed, with what seemed like a scrawled Hebrew shorthand, underneath which were the English words, “CANDY, 615”.
“Sweet, Kosher trick or treating!”, I thought. What a time to be alive. I noticed the boy studying the sign, and remembered my YOLO philosophy, which prompted me to act. “Hey, does that say Halloween?”, I asked. You know, like an idiot. “It says Pesach, sir”, he replied, smiling. “That means Passover!”, he added, correctly assuming I didn’t know the term like he did. You learn something every day, don’t you? “Uff! That stuff’s gone bad! Don’t take candy from strangers!”, the lady added, reminding us both of her presence and the familiar childhood cliche. We all laughed.
As we reached my floor, I left the elevator, and thanked them both for their patience. I spotted the kid spam-pressing the “open door” button, without my asking, and let him know I’m glad I met him. He thanked me, for what I do not know. At the same time, as if on divine cue, we both wished each other a happy Halloween. We didn’t jinx each other, but our eyes betrayed our winks.
What did this encounter mean? I can’t say. All I know is, amidst the backdrop of anger, grief, and trauma afflicting our respective communities this past month, I felt the flood of human connection in its cutest, dumbest, purest form, for the first time in weeks.
It felt sweeter than tasting any candy or catching any elevator door.
It felt like that thing we lose when tragedy strikes. It felt like hope.
