By Samuel Yamshon, Los Angeles Times, May 15, 2020
As I make my way into my building’s elevator after a long hospital shift, a neighbor throws his arm out to stop me. “Sorry,” he says, “only one person per elevator.” Seeing my confusion, our doorman kindly but firmly corrects him. “Two per elevator is fine.” I take a step toward the open doors, but the passenger again holds up his palm. “Please,” he pleads, his eyes glancing frantically at my scrubs. “Please, just take a different one.”
Speechless, I take the next elevator and arrive at my New York City apartment filled with my son’s toys, untouched since he and my wife moved out nearly 40 days ago.
I have become used to the wide berth given me, the parents pushing strollers who cross the street when they see me coming or the people who take one look at me in an elevator and sprint the other direction like it’s a subway car without air conditioning in July.
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