Metro Doors


This happened yesterday.

I work on the same floor as the Secretary of HHS, and she’s hosting a brown bag lunch for HHS interns in the formal reception room, which means the hallways are filled with anxious young adults eager to make good impressions.

It was hard to miss them as I raced to the elevators to get lunch, barely making it to the closing doors in time. But I stuck my arm in, the doors slid open, and I jumped inside. I don’t know if it was my badge, or the bags under my eyes, the way I lean in, or the gray hair, but the six interns inside the elevator suddenly went quiet and stood up a little straighter as I made eye contact.

“So, these elevators have sensors?” one girl finally asked. I turned and answered, “Oh, yes. These will open for you. The Metro, though? Those doors don’t have sensors, and they WILL amputate your leg.”

This was met by polite giggles and nodding of heads.

The elevator reached our cafeteria, and I nodded at them as I stepped out first. Just as I turned the corner out of eyesight, though, I heard another girl cautiously ask, “Um, has that really happened? Will the Metro REALLY amputate your leg?”