Metropolitan Diary: Treating the Elevator Like a Toy I was waiting for the elevator on Central Park West, dreaming about the food in my fridge. It was a pleasant afternoon. The crisp air rejuvenated my senses. Then it all started. The elevator door opened, and I slipped in. A voice rasped out, "Hold the door please." Being a good neighbor, I pressed the "Door Open" button - a mistake I would soon regret. The voice belonged to a grandma with a young grandson. They stepped in as the door slid shut. We were confined in a small metal chamber. Grandma looked content with her grandson. The boy looked like the devil, with pointy little ears. I pressed the button for my floor and the light "18" illuminated. I inquired where Grandma wanted to go. As Grandma started to reply, the kid suddenly lunged for the buttons. He hit the button "5" with such force that I could feel the elevator shake. Grandma beamed at me. "I taught him how to count" she said, obviously pleased. And then he started counting. As he counted, he slammed each button: "2, 3 ... 16!" he chanted in an earsplitting scream. Grandma chuckled and congratulated the little boy on his counting. I was fuming. I glared at the little boy and begged him to stop. Grandma snapped, "Don't ruin his creativity."