I am not the elevator operator. Do I dress like one? Perhaps some of the people in this office building unconsciously consider me one and so have relaxed their own floor-watching responsibilities when I am among them. At least this morning they did so several times. The elevator stops, person gets off on the wrong floor and hurries back inside. Elevator stops, person does not react to this being his or her floor until just as the doors are starting to close. Being a reasonably observant sentient I am fully aware of these persons' inattention. Inside me wells a slight urge to poke them to a higher state of consciousness, in order that they might no longer embarrass themselves on the elevator.

But I resist; I am not the elevator operator.

This lassitude exhibited itself yesterday as well, when I was waiting for the bus 70, at the intersection of Powell and Milwaukie. A car turning left from Milwaukie passed in front of the bus stop. A young man leaned from the passenger seat and used a two-handed set pass technique to throw the ball toward the bus stop and the small crowd under its shelter. He had a broad grin on his face as if he were setting Olympic records.

Momentum trumped his flat-headed intentions; the ball curved harmlessly away from the shelter, came within two feet of me, then bounced off a utility pole, back into the street. Did I care? I did not. I try not to react to the pranks of idiots. But a samaritan did trot down the sidewalk to collect the ball from its gutter wanderings, not wanting it to cause an accident in the busy traffic in front of us.