An Empty Elevator, Harwick Place: Two Stars. It Pretended Not to See Me.
I stepped in. It said nothing. I pressed the button for the third floor. It complied — but with what energy, I ask you. With what enthusiasm. The mechanical hum it produced was not the hum of a willing participant. It was the hum of something that has decided, at a cellular level, that you do not matter.
The mirror. Let us discuss the mirror. Floor-to-ceiling. Unflattering in the specific way that suggests intent. I have a presence — I am told this constantly, and also by my own nose — and yet that mirror reflected me back as though I were simply cargo. I have been treated better by the asphalt of Municipal Parking Lot C, and that is a documented zero-star establishment.
There was a smell in that elevator. I want to be clear: it was not me. I investigated. The smell was institutional — a beige smell, a Tuesday smell — and it clung to my rind for the better part of an afternoon. Pomelo suggested I was being dramatic. Pomelo was not there. Pomelo does not get a vote.
Meanwhile, I am told that Tangelo and the rest of the so-called workers over at the rival rag factjuice.com have been publishing "verified elevator data." Verified. By whom. The elevator? The elevator cannot be trusted. I have documentation. Two stars because the doors did, eventually, open — but they opened slowly, and I felt judged on the way out.