The Passerby

Every passerby has a story, I remembered. 

In my twenties, I worked as a lift operator—it wasn’t the fanciest job in the world, but still, it was enough for me to get by on a day-to-day basis. 

And no, I’m not talking about those ski resort lift operators that wear giant coats and fuzzy mittens, I’m talking about elevators operators that worked during the times before the ‘up’ and ‘down’ button was invented, the lift operators that wore pure white leather gloves and neatly buttoned-up suit jackets and neckties. 

Now, I stood in front of the Hillside Tower—a famous building known for its intricate architectural design, where writers came to either get their dreams turned into a reality, or crushed beyond repair. As I walked up to the glass door, the crystal panels slid open, demonstrating a warm welcome. 

I still distinctly remember the type of people that I met on those elevator trips. The ones that said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and also the ones that completely ignored you as if you were nothing but a slip of air. 

Perhaps my career life as I had seen it, was already automated before I was replaced by one. 

My thoughts would wander as I saw each person come and go from the elevator shaft, moving forward with their individual lives. I would tailor stories for each passerby, wondering what their life was like outside of this elevator. I would wonder what their personality was like, what their hobbies were, and just what kind of person they were. They didn’t seem to care much for me however, just asked me how I was, but that’s always how people seem to get to know each other right? Small talk. The weather. The weekend. The formalities. 

People acted like they cared, but only wanted me there to pull the lever. 

Then I met her. A girl so radiant and dazzling that no words would be adequate enough to capture her presence. She was gorgeously mesmerizing, but perhaps the most captivating part of her wasn’t her appearance, but rather the way she projected herself. 

Friendly, gentle, humble. 

Human. 

A receptionist greeted me as I made my way further into the chandelier-lit hallway. My shoes tapped rhythmically against the marble flooring, and I felt my pulse quickening with each additional step, my heart so strained it could break. 

I found myself thinking about the girl again. 

The first time, she had stepped into the elevator very hurriedly, and in a panicked manner. Her shoes were muddy and soaked from the outside rain, and she had gloves messily pulled over her slim fingers. 

“Floor six, please. As quick as you possibly can.” She had said in a short breath.

As I pulled the lever, I wonder what kind of life she might’ve had. Probably rich I assumed, from the way she dressed and how she displayed herself. The girl didn’t seem to care so much about the formalities though, but maybe that’s what I liked about her. 

The second time, she had worn a pale yellow dress, and stepped into the elevator lift with coffee and donuts in one hand, and documents in the other. She smiled at me. A genuine smile that started at the lips and ended at the eyes. It made me smile back. 

“Would you like a pastry? I apologize for being so rude yesterday, I was in a hell of a rush.” The girl gave an apologetic look, “Attendance calls.”

I continued to bump into her once in a while, and she and I always exchanged interesting conversations. They would range all the way from likes and dislikes, to our hopes, dreams, and ambitions. 

It was her that made me realize that I wanted to become a writer. 

I walked further across the hallway until I approached a line of elevators. I pressed the button going upwards and waited, papers in hand. 

The girl told me she was a publisher, specifically for digital media and digital content. She theorized to me that technology would end up taking over many people’s jobs. Evolution is cruel, she stated. 

And the girl was right. Now, you could only find lift operators in fancy hotels draped in gold and privilege. Ones where its clients proved too rich and couldn’t even be bothered to press a goddamn button for themselves. But in most places, ‘the lift operator’ was a thing of the past. A job to be forgotten. Too simple. And too easily replaced. 

Nobody ever remembers the lift operator, they are simply an observer to be forgotten. 

Ding. 

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside hesitantly. 

My hands fidgeted with the papers in my hand, eyes glancing down at them periodically. I adjusted my tie, and admired the foreign buttons on the elevator wall with small numbers written on them. 

The door was now slowly sliding closed. Bit by bit, the opening narrowed, until suddenly a hand stuck its way through. 

“Just in time.” A girl around my age peeked inside the door, holding a cup of coffee and a bag of donuts in her hands. 

Immediate recognition filled my eyes. The girl was still wearing the same pale yellow dress, and carried the same way of talking and smiling. She would probably strike up another interesting conversation before I knew it, and I would be whisked away by her radiance once more. 

Writing was an art, the girl had said. It could never be replaced by technology, but it was still something that had to be learned. A skill that was to be improved upon. 

In a perfect world, I would pass the papers in my hands to her. I would tell her that we met before, and that it was fine if didn’t remember meeting me. I would tell her that I became what she suggested, and the stories I collected had made me a better writer. 

“Is this a query letter?” She would ask me, taking the papers into her hands. But it wouldn’t be career-related, it would be something more important to me than any letter. Two words that began with four letters. Here's a hint: it starts with an ‘L’ and ends with an ‘E’. 

Instead, I smile as I extend my hand to meet hers, “Nice to meet you.”

A bit of formality was alright once in a while.

“Which floor to, miss?”