I’m waiting for the elevator this morning, on my way to a meeting. The elevator doors open. Standing barefoot in the corner is a small boy of about two.
ME: Whatcha doing? (No reply.) Where are you going? (No reply.) Should we go find your Mom?
ME: What floor do you live on? (He looks like he’s thinking hard, but he’s got nothing.)
It’s academic what floor he lives on, because in my building you can only access your own floor and the common areas. We head to the lobby. He jumps out of the elevator, crosses the lobby, and smushes his face against the glass door to the party room. Pool, shuffleboard and fun times await him silently.
We wait for a couple of minutes, while he stares longingly into the party room. An elevator arrives, and his exasperated father in a Paul Smith shirt rushes over. I was late for my meeting, but had an excellent excuse.