Get out of my way!
As I was exiting I-8 at Mission Valley, I made the mistake of allowing a driver, apparently in the wrong lane, to pull in front of me. For this I had to slow, which affected the driver behind me. If I’d known she was the madwoman of Hades, I wouldn’t have committed that grave urban sin. You know, giving someone a break.
Well, the woman from Hades leaned on the horn because the traffic ahead started moving and she wasn’t. She remedied that by swerving around me on the right narrow shoulder and cut in front of me in a show of road rage. I thought I heard her farewell: That’ll teach you to be considerate, country boy. Did that solo digit she waved out her window mean I was No. 1 or was she? Apparently, the woman in the large white SUV was in a rush to redeem her Driver of the Month certificate at the DMV, or maybe she was late for her anger management class. I’ll never know.
Off I went. I had an appointment at the appropriately named, Hazard Center, just west of Mission Valley. “Do you know what floor the Barista
Bank is on?” I asked the man at the large desk.
“I only work here,” he said and pointed me to a wall-size TV screen. It took forever to scroll down and find the listing. This took much longer than a glance at one of those old fashioned, static building directories.
OK. I looked at the large, glowing tablets positioned by each of the eight elevators. I pressed eight and got on the up elevator. As we were expressed to the 11th floor, I realized what had happened. On the 11th floor, I went to a tablet and pressed eight again, but this time I read the instruction that directed me to the “C” elevator. This brought me to my destination without further side trips.
Before I left my appointment, I mentioned to the bank assistant that I figured the “smart” elevator bank is intended to save energy, and that’s a good thing. But I prefer the slower, dumber elevators. What’s a few kilowatts among friends?
When I left Barista Bank, I asked a human for confirmation that this particular down elevator would actually go down to the ground floor. It did. While I was riding in the elevator, I noticed a guy tucked into a corner who looked as if he was stuck there. He held an old leaking cup of coffee and just shook his head, muttering. A woman who was exiting said aloud that the poor guy mumbled that he was just trying to get to the 10th floor for days. He was constantly shuttling back and forth between floors never arriving at his destination.
This is a warning to the wise. If you are a country boy or girl, a hayseed, or in our case an alfalfa seed, take these stories to heart. Conduct your big city business online or by phone. If you must, don’t go in there alone. Drive quickly and sit in a big truck. Good luck.