“You know, pressing the button again and again like that won’t make it get here any faster.”
“What difference does it make to you?” The man didn’t even look back at George. He just kept his eyes glued to the numbered display above the elevator doors, mashing the button like he was playing an arcade game. The car was still ten floors above them, stationary. It was not descending, as George had pointed out, any faster, despite the man’s impatience.
“It makes the difference between me losing my temper. And not losing my temper.”
“Is that right?” said the man, turning around at last. “Well, let’s see.” He put his hand behind his back, reaching for the button, and looked George in the eye. He resumed pressing the button, faster and faster, fast enough that a sheen of sweat formed on his lip.
George took a deep breath.
The man smiled, registering the rise and fall of his shoulders. “Maybe you should try counting to ten.”
“That’d be pointless. I lose it well before I reach five,” said George, stepping forward and grabbing a handful of the man’s hair, looping it around his fist until he had fashioned himself a good, strong handle. He had only begun smashing the man’s head into the same button he had been pressing when the elevator did arrive.
“What do you know?” muttered George, as he let go of the man’s hair and let his bloody head follow his crumpled body to the floor. “Maybe you were on to something after all.”
Photo by Max Muselmann on Unsplash