In addition to trains, Bünj' really likes elevators. It's a cautious, compulsive interest. When he uses real elevators he's really intense, kind of nervous. He insists on strict adherence to protocol: immediate boarding and offloading, he must push the buttons, etc. He respects the elevator. He senses its power.
Rebecca had a couple of professional conferences last month and Bünj' and I joined her on the trips (as is our custom). Beforehand, Bünj' was really looking forward to the elevators (and the swimming pools) in the hotels, particular the "glass elevator" in one hotel at which we'd stayed previously.
Well, we had nice trips, had many good adventures and enjoyed numerous fruitful, if intense, elevator rides.
Well, now we have an elevator in our house. (YES, it's imaginary.) Fortunately, it's our sunroom, not some cramped, dark closet.
You see, we live in a hotel. Bünj' is the manager. We all work here.
When we want to go upstairs in our house, unless we have some serious reality-based reason, we can expect to be told we must step into the sunroom— er, uh, elevator … while Bünj' pushes some buttons and closes the door and then let us out.
Moreover, it's the service elevator. It's the only one we may use. This restriction, we discovered, is quite strictly enforced. Yesterday Mrs. OccupationDad tried to use a different one. Mr. Manager reproached most stridently saying, "You can't go that way. That's for guests!" It's obvious he thought she was the most ridiculous employee he'd ever encountered.
As Mrs. OccupationDad said this morning (when Mr. Manager was still asleep), "It really comes to something when we're regulated to the service elevator in our home."
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