The Elevator bum-bum-bummmmmm!

So I went downstair and got myself a Coke Zero, which I've been told was rated a B+ by the Reviewist.

Anyway, I hopped on the elevator -literally- not expecting anyone to be in it, and got kind of embarrassed when someone was. He was a biggish kind of guy, a bit "fluffy" I guess, with slacks and a brown fuzzy V-neck sweater. He looked a bit like my 8th grade math teacher. Anyway, I landed on the elevator floor and looked up slightly ashamed at my display of childhood and he smiled and said in a sweet southern accent, "Come on in. I don't bite."

"Ha ha," I said. "I don't either, anymore."

He smiled at me, as though he was happy to have met someone who shared in his good-morning-mood. This was odd because I am not a morning person, and under normal circumstances I'd probably have slipped into the corner of the elevator and stayed there until my floor. But I felt compelled to keep talking.

"I had to quit biting after all of the restraining orders."

He kept smiling, but his eyes bugged out as though I had somehow touched on some secret information. I could tell he was right on the line of uncomfortable. My brain said to stop, but my mouth said,

"It's kinda hard to work here when you're constantly having to move 50 feet away from everybody."

He started to sweat. Was it something I said? 'Shut up, ME!' I thought. 'For cryin' out loud, SHUT UP!' Then I said,

"I mean, it'd be fine if everyone would just sit still, right?"

I noticed him scootching himself back into the corner of the elevator. Probably wondering, just like I was, "How friggin long does it take to get to the second floor?"

"They're like little kids with ADD," I added. "I want to just yell, keep your seats, kids!"

With that the poor man let out a high pitch groan. "Who do you work for?" he whispered at me.

"What's the matter?" my mouth said, now complete emancipated from my brain, "Don't you like kids?"

"Ahgh," he squealed in a high voice, and actually swooned.

"Of course you like kids! You look like the teachery type. I think I had a teacher who looked like you once."

"No you didn't!" he screamed in an almost woman's voice. And though my brain could tell that he was clearly in distress, my mouth was now the puppet of the Tourrette's-demon-puppet master.

"I'm really not trying to imply you're a pedophile."

"I was NOT your teacher," he said and opened his cell phone with shaking hands.

"I mean, you look like one. That doesn't mean you are one, right?"

"Ohh," he moaned as he was typing the numbers in.

"You know," I said, "You're really not supposed to use that in the elevator. They have a sign up."

Half an hour later we got to the second floor and I got off. The guy was still inside chatting it up with his psychiatrist.

Where did the "real" conversation end and the made up one begin? Well, I'm too ashamed to admit.