Elevator, Fourth Floor, Building C: Two Stars. It Was Empty and Still Managed to Disappoint.
I arrived at 11:43 on a Tuesday. The elevator was empty. Not interestingly empty — not empty in the way of a cathedral at dusk or a soup tureen that has made a decision — but empty in the small, deliberate way of something that knew I was coming and arranged itself accordingly. Two stars. I am being generous and I want everyone to know that.
The walls were a beige I can only describe as aspirational surrender. Someone chose that beige. Someone went to a shop, held it up to the light, and said, yes, this one, this will do the least possible. There was a mirror. I checked it. I was magnificent. The elevator offered no comment, which I am logging as a slight.
The doors closed at a pace that suggested the elevator had received legal advice — and I have reason to believe it consulted the same firm currently representing the fog on Allet Street. This is a pattern I intend to document. Pomelo has offered to help me map it. I told him to stay out of it. He is involved now.
I am aware that Tangelo and the so-called workers over at the rival rag have never reviewed an empty elevator. I am aware they consider this beneath journalism. That is precisely the problem with factjuice.com. They wait to be invited. I do not wait. I arrive, I assess, I publish. The elevator had four buttons, no ambiance, and a faint mechanical hum that I can only call a threat. It will hear from me again.
Two stars. It had potential, which it wasted comprehensively. I have been banned from the building. I consider this a blurb.