It has been a while since I used elevators on a daily basis, but the routine hasn't changed, according to what I experienced in a downtown office building the other day.

I walked in and pressed the "Up" button, "up" being the appropriate direction for my destination on the fifth floor. The elevator, one of those older, slightly creaky models, was all the way at the top of the building, eight floors up.

After a wait of ... oh, I'd say no more than half and hour, the elevator began descending from the eighth floor. It stopped on the seventh. Also the sixth. And, come to think of it, the fifth, fourth, third, and second. Each stop took about five minutes - just enough time, you know, to take on water and coal, to load and unload some cargo, and to move the passengers around.

Now, as this was going on, I was joined in the lobby by several people who also wished to travel elevatoriffically in an upwardly direction.  They and saw the "up" light on the panel glowing merrily, indicating that the elevator had been called (and, apparently, would get there when it was good and ready). So what did they do?

They pushed the "up" button. Every last one of them.

This is a form of conversation. And the message is:

"Excuse me, bud, but obviously you don't know how to call an elevator. Here, let me show you."

Or:

"Didn't you know? The more times you push the button, the faster the elevator gets here." (This is one is most often demonstrated by someone stepping forward and punching the button rapidly and repeatedly, like he was telling the elevator to hurry up ... in Morse code.)

Or:

"I BEG your pardon, but you obviously don't know how important I am. In fact, this is MY elevator and the rest of you are using it at my sufferance. And why wasn't it here with the doors open when I came through the door?"

Like I said, it's conversation. And it's usually the last conversation of the ride. There is nothing so quiet as an elevator full of strangers. Unless, of course, one of those strangers is me.

On crowded elevators, I like to greet my fellow passengers with a hearty "Are we over the load limit?" If I'm in there with a woman, I mind my manners by tipping my hat and saying, "Howdy, Toots!" If I'm in there with just a few people, I like to point out "It's not the heat, it's the humidity," no matter what the weather. And if it's a couple of business-type males, I'll usually ask, "Which one of you had the fried onions?"

I find this gives me plenty of breathing room for the remainder of the ride.

I've always found the elevator experience to be semi-hilarious. Outside, we can be walking, talking, fully functional human beings, but once we get in there, we're mannequins, saying nothing, staring straight ahead. How weird. Why do we do that? What are we afraid of?

Oh, I know. That someone like me might just burst into a chorus of "The Japanese Sandman" or something equally annoying.

Well, don't worry. I may be a goof but I do have some standards, thank you.

I only do that when the elevator is going down.

I'm sure we all saw the story about the guy down in Bloomfield who had his eyebrows trimmed for charity.

We didn't?

Well, then, sit back and get ready for ... EYEBROWS IN THE NEWS!

We take you now to Charming Bloomfield, where former jeweler Si Burgher donated his eyebrows to Rotary International's PolioPlus, which raises money to fight polio in the developing world.

Members of his Rotary Club bid for chances to prune the hedges over Si's eyes, which had never been trimmed and grew to a length of three inches. The event raised $1.600, at $500 bucks a whack.

What a heartwarming story. I'm sure you all join me in saying:

"THREE INCHES? Good Lord, man, have you never heard of scissors?"

Or something of that nature.

I saw the before pictures of ol' Si. It looked like the south end of his forehead was planted in tumbleweeds, with a few vines and creepers - Jeepers Creepers, to be specific - thrown in for good measure. He could have braided these things, or put them up in curlers.

In other words, they were a mess. As eyebrows go, they were worse than Andy Rooney's, which is saying something. I'm not kidding. Andy's look neat and tidy next to what Si used to have.

Three inches? Let's put that in perspective, shall we? Three inches is about the length of a playing card. It's half the length of a dollar bill. It's ... it's ...

It's way too long for eyebrows, that's what it is.

My Dad had some pretty aggressive eyebrows - black, thick and bristling. He kept them under control, though, generally with a whip, a chair and a pair of barber shears. He was the Gunther Gebel-Williams of eyebrow trimmers.

Mine started heading that direction when I was in my mid-20s. In what had been nice, neat, orderly, everyday eyebrows I'd get this one one crazy hair that decided to go its own way. Trying to escape, I guess. 

One day I noticed it had brought friends to its merry little escapade. Interestingly, this was at a time when I had very long hair on top of my head as well, so there I was, keeping the barber away from my hair, but giving my eyebrows crewcuts.

Of course, crazy eyebrows are only the beginning for most guys. Without getting too - oh, what's the word I'm looking for? Ah, I have it. Gross. Without getting too gross, men just get weirdly hairy as they mature.

It's like the Weird Hair Elves come in the night and secretly douse you with Rogaine in as many unusual locations as they can find. Then they destroy a few scalp follicles, just for fun. You wake up in the morning and find that not only has your hairline gone north another couple of millimeters, but you also need to shave the front of your nose.

This is the stuff they never told you about in seventh grade when all the girls had to go to the Home Ec room to watch their Special Movie About Growing Up, and all the Boys had to go to the Science Room to watch theirs.

They SURE didn't say anything about eyebrows. Or if they did, I was asleep.

I wonder if that's what happened to ol' Si. Three inches? Jeepers Creepers.

© 2009 Mike Redmond. All Rights Reserved.