One always seems to think things can't get any worse. Then I got belted in my deflated though still puffing ego. As I hurried toward the elevator that would take me to my office, a young man in a motorized wheel chair raced ahead of me. He managed to get the front wheel of his chair between the closing doors, but that was not enough to trigger the elevator's safety switch, and the doors pinched the front tire of his chair like a vice. I arrived in time to slide my hand in and force the elevator doors open, though there was no real danger, and his wheel held the elevator for both of us.
H is gratitude was copious and genuine.
We rode up together, and he exited the elevator before I did. The elevator carried me up the remaining floors, and, mysteriously, my morning funk lifted. Joe Shea The American Reporter. All Rights Reserved.