If I could ride in an elevator with anyone, either living or dead, I would most definitely pick Sigmund Freud.
Not because a 30-seconds-long vertical journey would be time enough to permit any kind of meaningful psychological exchange between the Good Herr Doktor and I – it’d be time enough to summon a pithy, off-cuff interpretation of last night’s bad dream, perhaps, or if he had his pocket watch on hand, to flirt with the stirrings of hypnotic stupor, but then it’d be time’s up.
And not because I have Daddy issues (Hi, Dad!), or because I enjoy ingesting the stink of stale cigar smoke within an enclosed space (which is always how I imagined Freud to smell, based on what he looks like in photographs).
Nay. I pick Freud because, if the events of the past two weeks are any indication, elevator shafts are unpredictable kinds of places…
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