Disillusionment of the Downstairs Attendant

watching semi-nightly from the banister above, I'd catch the old man sitting, rustling his newspapers and drinking cups of joe, sipped on black and steaming hot, with eyes of deer, determined and disinterested. without as much a hint to a smile or a frown, his long night shift seemed endless and without event. reading mysteries and romances, and crosswords were a breeze. sometimes he would pace quickly, in the lobby down below, secret whisperings and mutters turned to stifled shouts. then once he gave one last look to his nightly home, it's yellow lamps and carpet, intentionally uncomfortable chairs, and the lone and creaky floorboard by his vintage desk. forcing open the elevator door, he stood beneath for hours, until the sun had risen and a beautiful day had started. my neighbors missed their breakfast, for the lift seemed to have become stuck, two feet below the bottom floor.