B and I got on the elevator down from the top floor of the parking garage yesterday morning; three other people got on with us.
The elevator stopped at the next floor down, where three more people got on.
And it stopped again at the next floor, where we picked up two or three more people. By this time, it was feeling a little tight in there.
When it stopped at the next floor and the doors opened, the two people waiting outside the door took a quick look inside, smiled and said, “We’ll wait.” Everybody chuckled.
We stopped again at the next floor. Same thing happened: Doors opened, waiting people looked in, shook their heads, doors closed. Chuckles all around.
“It says we can hold twenty-one people,” somebody said, pointing out the official capacity on a plaque.
“I don’t think they were counting on Wisconsin people,” someone else fired back, “or any society based on cheese, beer, and bratwurst.”
This Is Drivel 