On my way to a late lunch yesterday I took an elevator down from my floor (13 - I do enjoy working in a building whose architects reject superstition) to take a long walk to wherever I'd eat. Saw the "1" button already lit and absentmindedly pressed the "2" button, force of habit since I always park on the top level of the garage, with an entrance onto the second floor.
Felt a bit sheepish when I realized the woman on the elevator would have to make two stops because of me (13 and 2); felt even more sheepish when I realized I'd actually want the first floor, since I was going to take a long walk. Decided to just get off on 2, walk out to the parking garage, take the outside stairs, and walk. Psychologically easier than saying "Just kidding about the second floor."
So the elevator stops at 2 and the lady bursts out of it ahead of me. Stunned, I start to call out "This is the second..." "It's okay, I forgot my keys." And the door shut between us and next thing I knew I was on the first floor anyway. That is, exactly where I wanted to be to begin with, and yet... it confused me but only because I'm slow that way.
Wasn't that a fascinating story? I respect the love of my life's time too much to have inflicted this on her, yet I put it out there for you to read, and even a bonus.
Towards the end of work last night I was insanely productive, finding more and more things to get done but also running out of time to eat between work and poker. Got to the latter at 8:05, close enough to the start time on the invitation that I figured the game wouldn't be quite underway yet. And in fact, the Stanford contingent was running late enough that I had time to go take a walk, hence dine after all.
Found a reasonable looking Mexican place in Rockridge (had the name "Cactus" in it), ordered their cheapest quesadilla and a drink cup. This is one of those places where they put your order number on your receipt and call out numbers as food is ready. Or they're supposed to. After a couple minutes I saw the cooks put a quesadilla plate onto the metal counter, where it was ignored for one minute. Two minutes. I looked at my receipt (#45) and the receipt on the plate (#45) and wondered if I'd get in trouble if I just reached over the counter to grab my food.
(They had a prominent sign posted saying they no longer gave you your food without looking at your receipt. Now, I HAD my receipt, just didn't have anyone whose attention I could get to verify that it was mine even though it obviously was.)
Finally I made eye contact with someone. She took my receipt, scrutinized it, scrutinized the plate, slid the quesadilla over to me, and was saved the trouble of announcing #45 over the sound system.
Posted by Matt Bruce at December 17, 2004 10:25 AM