Of Lies And Papayas

There were four other people with me in the elevator this morning on my way to the office. Everyone was silent as per ordinary elevator etiquette. To my right was a woman in a power suit, with a power handbag (I could see the double Gs logo) and a power attitude to match—she had an “I can smell that you’re all beneath my status” scowl on her face. She’s a Power Pout Girl.

And then her phone rang. The ubiquitous opening chords of the “Papaya Song” began to fill the elevator car but her fingers were quick. “Hello?” her icy cold tone sliced through the silence. Then her voice turned all-warm, all-friendly. “Oh, hi Brian!” All-flirty. “Oh, really? Good morning to you too!” she said with a slight giggle at the end of her sentence.

The elevator stopped and I stepped out.

“I’m in Starbucks right now,” she giggled again into her phone.

You should have seen the look of astonishment and amusement on my face. Good thing I was walking away from the elevator so they only saw the back of my head. Star-fucking-bucks, my ass! You lying bee-otch!

I don’t know which one I feel sorrier for her: that she’s trapped in an elevator full of folks who are chanting, “Liar, liar, pants on fire” in their heads; or that she has the “Papaya Dance” for a ringtone.