When I first saw the striking elevator workers on Bay Street, I paid them no mind. Hey, who’s gonna miss those guys? It’s not as if they’re an essential service, like the LCBO… But that, of course, was before the elevator in my new apartment stopped working.
Well, it’s not that the lift is entirely out of service; you just can’t push any of the buttons on the ground floor. As a third-floor dweller, this wouldn’t be such a big deal, except that the designers of my building, in all their wisdom, decided that the stairs should lead directly outside, not to the lobby. Which is great when I’m running almost-not-on-time for work–but not so much when I need to use the refuse room.
Of course, the biggest issue is going up. I can’t open the doors to the stairwell from the outside, so I need to rely on the elevator for those mere two flights. In their foresight, the property manager has come up with a novel solution to this dilemma: elevator attendants. Sure, they may be dressed in security-guard uniforms, not seersucker suits, but at least they ensure that I won’t be spending the night in the lobby when I stumble in at 2 am, like I did on Saturday.
The funny thing is that when I lived in my old apartment, I’d always glare at anyone who took the elevator up to the third floor, unless they were visibly disabled or carrying a large package. These days, I don’t really have a choice. But it would still be nice if someone could come and fix the buttons so I don’t hafta be scrutinized by security every time I say “Three, please.”