Over Winter Break, my parents took me out to dinner. We rode the elevator down from the restaurant. It was packed to the point we were likely about one and a half people over the weight limit, causing a couple of concerning bumps along the way. 

My dad made a small comment about how horrible it would be to be trapped here, and someone piped up, telling an elaborate story about a time he was stuck in an elevator —  a saga so engaging, the conversation continued out of the elevator until we were forced to part ways.

The entire walk home, my family and I were buzzing, filled with the type of adrenaline you can only get from a successful social interaction with a stranger.

Ever since then, my number one goal in life has been to make a friend in an elevator. 

I have been utterly failing at this mission. Instead of creating community and new bonds, I think people living in my dorm are soon going to dread my presence in the elevator.  

I have learned a few things, however, like the first interaction sets the stage for the rest of the ride. 

To open up the conversation, I’ve developed a couple of go-to lines. I drop a, “Should we jump?” whenever there is a slight bit of turbulence, but, shockingly, that doesn’t typically go over too well. 

Recently, the doors opened on a floor, and nobody got out, so I asked my companions — two football players and a random girl who lives on my floor — “Now, who pressed the button?” I was met with blank stares. 

In the face of this suffocating silence, I stared at the wall as we slowly ticked up floors and let out a laugh in a futile attempt to cut the awkwardness. When I walked out, I was completely humbled with a, “I guess this is me.”  

My roommate recommended I purposefully block the buttons, so fellow passengers are forced to ask me to press them for them. 

But then, how do you continue the conversation? “What floor? And by the way, what’s your name and major and hometown?” That doesn’t really have a nice ring to it. 

At the beginning of the quarter, the elevator in my dorm broke, and it felt like my dream was dead before it even started. Little did I know, this could be the key to my success. 

The elevator now does this weird thing where it opens and closes about four to five times before finally starting to go up. While annoying at first, I soon realized that this was the universe giving me a golden chance — there is so much new material with a broken elevator. 

One day, I dropped the line, “Alright, nobody look, and the doors will close!” Then, just like magic, the doors did. My fellow riders and I celebrated our manifested success. By the time we reached the second floor, we were laughing like old friends. I couldn’t believe it.

About 30 seconds later, we got out on the same floor, and the conversation immediately died. As soon as we exited the liminal space of the elevator, we had nothing in common anymore. It was a fleeting, conditional friendship. The only experience we shared was that for three measly floors, we were all going up. 

Maybe I’ll have more luck on the stairs.

Ivy Frater is a Medill freshman and author of “Joke Walk.” She can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.