For some reason, people in Vegas talk to strangers on the elevator, which is a total 180 from common elevator behavior anywhere else in the world. I think it has something to do with the general mood of the place combined with how crowded the elevators often are.
Usually it’s just some lame joke about the crowds or something, but today, while I was waiting for the elevator at the luxurious Imperial Palace when a skinny man who looked to be in his early fifties walked over and pressed the button as well. “Mmm mmm mmm,” he groaned, shaking his head at me in frustration.
There are about a million reasons why someone might be feeling that way in Vegas, so I just pursed my lips and snorted sympathetically.
“This my last trip with that woman,” he told me. “We get home, I’m gettin’ a divorce.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Mmm hmmm. She outta her goddamn mind. I mean she seriously crazy.”
“Vegas can bring out the worst in people.”
“Naw, man, this been goin’ on. 53 years old and she a muthafuckin’ streetwalkin’ whore.”
I sighed along with him as we boarded the elevator, then asked which floor he was going to. He told me, and I pressed the buttons for both of us.
“Up till now, you know, it was workin’ out alright for me, but I can’t take this shit no more. She is muthafuckin’ nuts.”
“A lot of them are.”
He smiled a bit and laughed for the first time. “You got right, man.”
My stop was first. “Best of luck to you,” I told him.
“Alright, alright, I appreciate that. You too now,” he answered as the doors closed behind me.