The Sound of Muzak
I elevate elevator music, or whatever Eminem said.
Allegro assai
Of swirling whirlwind romances, impossible attitudes of four-wall swooning or a mundane embrace a la Hayez; of truculent pushing of buttons; of childhood dreams of wonder that under warm amber glow expand into lobbies of mahogany and limpid varnish; of the Newtonian mechanics of pulleys and celestial levers; of Einstein’s elevator and a phone booth hurtling through the continuum; of tranquil ascension in oblong vertical caskets; of the claustrophobic distortions of the face in the mirror that “won’t stop”; of abysses between floors; of Hollywood adrenaline rapture of snapping cables and conflagrations that fade to white; of sublime corporate goddesses that step out amongst civilised men to the accompaniment of silver ghazal-crooning- a la Seagram’s Imperial Blue Ad.
Tempo rubato
All happy families are alike; each happy family is happy in its own way.
To the best of my knowledge, the sound of muzak, or elevator music, constitutes the lesser of two very great elevator evils. The other, of course, is the breaking of that vow of silence tacitly and unanimously undertaken by its passengers, or rather, pilgrims. (Strictly no more than six of them shall make the passage at any given time.) All this I present as truth by consensus, the consensus being reached by several unspoken agreements.
One possible explanation of this result is that muzak, though insufferable by itself, discharges us of the obligation to make small talk. (It might be argued that it even affords us the enjoyment of politely transgressing that rule of politeness which enforces small talk, be it ever so awkward.)
Incidentally, the sound of muzak is one I have no recollection of having heard within the walls of my apartment’s elevator for the longest time. I have no intention of criticising a place that was always close to my heart, so I must mention that this sole fault was more than amply compensated for by the following: a siren song which by virtue of cloying will compel you to “please close the door”, and a series of exquisite (and flattering) portraits in chiaroscuro that the mirror will offer up to you for the duration of your ride, their humble provenance being but a pair of light bulbs of which one is broken.
And the lack of muzak is hardly a categorical flaw when you are alone.
I have sung in my elevator (more than I ever have in the shower), given myself pep talks and TED talks, and even serenaded the ineffable Alfina (the manufacturer) on occasion. Thank goodness that walls do not speak.
But I digress. I have lost count of the number of times I have sneaked in and out of the elevator, being zealous of avoiding even the slightest possibility of having to chat up any of my neighbours. (God bless their souls.) I am, however, proud to say that I have never had to sneak into my house… not yet, at least.
You would imagine that between the lack of muzak and my able slinking, I had made the elevator my very own stomping ground.
However, I have never been able to avoid being stuck with my family when we all head out together. It might have something to do with our collective unwillingness to take the stairs. Whatever the reason, there is no other way I would have it.
My family is anything but loquacious. At home, silence usually prevails for hours on end in the form of the four of us minding our business, each in our own corner. It is, I insist, silence by choice. (I presently interrupt my writing and an evening of absolute quiet on the road to ask my younger brother if he thinks this situation is “chill.” ‘Kind of,’ he replies, among many other things, confirming what I have just told you.)
The elevator, then, is one of the few times that we are all in the same room. But more strangely, it is one that seems to give rise to conversation.
With true consistency, we each pick a corner even within the four walls of the elevator. More often than not, my love of the mirror on the wall shall cause me to situate myself as close to it as possible; my brother shall seek the corner diagonally opposite to the elevator panel, so distancing himself from the sordid guilt of pushin’ P (P for penthouse, that is); thus us ingrates shall come to shove our parents into the vanguard of door and panel duty. This pattern is moderately variable, influenced by vagaries of chivalric sentiment or dawning of adult responsibility.
Once we are all inside the elevator, the inevitable shadow of a doubt arises: ‘Have all the windows been closed? Have all the lights been switched off? The locks, locked, etc. etc.?’ My mother, our meticulous unsung hero, calmly puts all these doubts to rest. A thread of reassurance is thus begun even as she tugs at my shirt and gently reminds me to adjust the collar or smooth out the fabric. From behind, I look at my brother as he fixes his hair in the mirror. He is well aware that I am looking at him, but what he does not know is the mingled sense of pride and chagrin I feel. This stems from the fact that I must now peep over his head to see beyond him; his thick head of hair already encroaches upon my field of vision. To think my baby brother will be taller than me before I know it! His headphones are hung suavely around his neck and are not clamped to his ears as they usually are. I suppress a chuckle, thinking about the sheer number of times my brother and I have been asked, cajoled, and chastened into taking off our headphones at home. (I would advise the same upon all my readers out of concern for their faculty of hearing, but more importantly, to curb the otherwise rapid development of a main character syndrome which follows from persistently soundtracking one’s life.) Despite myself, I extend my hand in the hope of palming his head — but better sense prevails at the last minute, and I instead adjust his jacket for him. As I do this, he asks my father where we are going. ‘Dinner,’ he answers. ‘But where?’ ‘Someplace that serves food,’ he replies triumphantly, this signature lame joke eliciting rolled eyes from my mother, what can only be described as the guttural equivalent of cringing from my brother, and the release of a long-suppressed chuckle from me. The mood is now as light and comfortable as can be, and it sets the tone for the rest of the night. I happily soak in this moment — a reverie of sorts in the company of those I love — even as I faintly grapple with the pleasant surprise of an entire elevator ride with awkward people but without any of the awkwardness.
A chime lets us know that we have reached the basement. My father moves to slide back the collapsible door while I still stand comfortably in my spot. But before he does, my parents’ voices ring teasingly in cheerful unabashed unison, ‘So, who’s your latest crush?’
I groan, quite literally cornered, as they head out laughing gloriously.
