I have spent two weeks riding elevators. I spent hours inside those small cages - up, down, up, down, up - as a class assignment. It was a social experiment to investigate what people do when forced into mutual company within such a confined space. I took the elevators at the Rock as high as they would take me, and as low. The steel cubes of the CIT were my home one lonely Thursday night. And, day after day, I shot to the top of the SciLi, got out to look past the Providence skyline and then dropped downwards again.
Here is what I expected: students, adults, and faculty would enter the elevator, push the button for their destination and then consign themselves to silence and stare away from my direction. There would be no verbal exchange, no tacit eye contact and certainly no blatant conversation. When the doors opened, my fellow elevator riders and I would depart, one after the other - silently, as though to prove our aloneness together.
I found what I was looking for, but I found more. The truth is, during my many vertical rides, we always found an act in which to engage ourselves. We fixed a winter hat that didn't need fixing; we unzipped, then re-zipped, an overcoat; we fiddled with iPods and Discmans. At the very least, we stared - at the button console to our side, at the numbers above the steel doors or, occasionally, at nothing but a blank spot on the ground. Some of us leaned against walls; others planted their feet and stood unsupported. One or two paced; most remained as statues, staring out into nothingness. I flipped through a book, and played with a pen cap. But whatever we did - and we all did something - we did it intently, and we did it with purpose.
The purpose, I think, was this: to let each other know that we refused to interact with each other. With no words spoken, we told each other, "I'm busy right now. I know you are there, but I will not acknowledge you." A few brave souls did glance in my direction, perhaps to check on my behavior, and I occasionally returned the favor. But, save for one mutual head-nod, we always averted our gaze the moment after we haphazardly acknowledged one another.
It is sad that we freeze and constrict ourselves in this way, but I have begun to think that behavior like this is largely influenced by the sudden change in environment elevators provide. We step out of a public space - in which we can walk through the crowds without ever having to say a word - and we step into an enclosed space, where we are alone with a stranger. It is a forced mutual exchange, and we don't like to be forced. The four walls close in, and suddenly one feels compelled to say something, anything. In such a short period of time, one finds it challenging to say anything of meaning - even though we do know, I hope, that "How are you?" and "Have a nice day" are some of the most meaningful things we can ever say. So, as a result, one becomes determined not to say anything. And we ride along in mutual silence.
But think of that other awkward social encounter: the dreaded sidewalk sparring that occurs when two strangers walk towards each other from a distance. One has to judge where the other will move, and then pick another path to avoid a collision. But doesn't it seem that, more often than not, we fail to find diverging paths, and we walk right towards each other until we almost collide? What a great example of people simply being unable to avoid contact. We try, but we cannot escape acknowledging the fact that we are sharing this space with another human being. We are like magnets with opposite poles: We can't help but join. There's something comforting in this attraction.
Maybe we can learn from the sidewalk encounter, and apply the lesson to elevator rides. By being aware of the mutual seclusion elevators provide, and by making an effort to overcome that isolation, we can enjoy a bit more the short time we have together. That may take the form of a short conversation, or, more likely, just a smile. And when the steel doors open, we can depart just a little more satisfied.
Joshua Lerner '07 is not a creep. He swears.
