Second Floor, Going Up

Everybody in medical school is very busy and important. The pace at which people walk and the number of exasperated sighs released in a day are but two of the many ways outsiders are clued in.

Medical students' time is the most valuable, the things they do in a day the most taxing, and pretty much they're just the most put-upon entity in society. Or excuse me, the world.

No where is this made more apparent than when one is waiting for the elevator in an apartment building that houses med students.

It doesn't matter if one is standing in front of the elevator bank, having just pushed the up button and clearly waiting for the car to come down to the lobby. Once a medical student enters they must BLOW by one and hit the up button six, eight, nay, twenty times. Not just because it makes the elevator come faster, but because they need one to know THEY'RE IN A HURRY. Clearly not as big of a hurry as one. One is a layman. One is ostensibly lacking a white coat and therefore does not matter hurry.

As one patiently stands, perhaps with one's arms full of groceries, the medical student paces, mentally berating the goddamn elevator that is just bringing their entire schedule down. This is beyond unacceptable. Doesn't that car KNOW who they ARE? They have an exam this week. This extra forty-five second interval was NOT budgeted into their study schedule.

They tap their foot. They cross and uncross their arms. They push the up button a few more times for good measure. They anxiously stare at the numbers coming down, letting out an affronted grunt as each successive number lights up... 8... then 7... it is just not fast enough to meet their unparalleled need to BE ON THAT ELEVATOR NOW, AND THEY MEAN NOW.

One quietly shifts one's armload of groceries to the floor, patient. Unmoving. Comfortable in the knowledge that yes, the elevator will get there eventually. The medical student seems less assured.

One sees them eye the security desk and one can observe the mental acrobatics playing across their face as they decide whether or not to report that the elevator is broken, because... how could it not be!? IT SHOULDN'T TAKE THIS LONG. THEY ARE VERY BUSY AND IMPORTANT. HOW DOES THE ELEVATOR NOT UNDERSTAND THIS.

They start penning a letter to the deans in their heads, enumerating the many different levels at which this insult is unsatisfactory for not only their day, but their medical education as a whole.

The elevator arrives.

The medical student springs through the threshold and has an overzealous trigger finger assaulting the "Door Close" button before one has even mobilized one's groceries.

One slips by the closing door, causing it to re-open for a whole extra twenty seconds, at which point the veins in the medical student's forehead leap across the elevator and attempt to strangle one. How could one ruin their life so. Doesn't one KNOW who they ARE?

They punch the button for the fourteenth floor.

There are few things in life that would be as satisfying as reaching for the fifteenth floor button and dragging one's hand down the length of the button columns to the second floor -- where one will promptly get off.