Don’t talk to me

11:15am, in my office building’s elevator.

I’m heading up with a covered food container. A creepy man gets in the elevator with me.

NOTE: “Creepy” is a highly objective term. Think Bruce Glover (Mr. Wint) in “Diamonds are Forever.” Do you know how, whenever they catch a serial killer, the neighbors always say, “He was just the nicest, most normal person. Very pleasant. Watered the lawn when we were away. We had no idea.” Well, this guy in the elevator was the type about whom, if he were revealed to be a mass murderer, the neighbors would say, “I knew it. I always knew he was killing people gruesomely and with some regularity.”

So this man is on the elevator with me. The doors had barely closed when he pointed to my food container and asked perkily, “So what do we have in THERE?”

I resisted the impulse to say, “A big, steaming portion of F YOU.”

Instead I adopted what I hoped was obviously a forced half-smile, then hissed, “Just some lunch.”

“Oh! I was thinking it was maybe some of that great BREAKFAST they have!”

I made a Lurchlike grunt.

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