In the Harbor Tower, the elevator had rules. Nobody had written them down, but everybody knew them. Rule one: watch the numbers. Rule two: never speak. Rule three: never look at anyone.
One Monday at 8:52 the elevator stopped between floors seven and eight. Six people were inside: Dev, a young intern, holding a tray of coffees; Mrs. Fischer, the accountant, with her calculator; Mr. Landau, the boss; Gloria, the cleaner, with her cart; Rafi, a courier with a helmet under his arm; and old Mr. Abel, who was bringing a plant to his daughter.
For five minutes they obeyed the rules to the letter. Nobody spoke, nobody looked at anybody, and the elevator music went on playing the same cheerful tune, over and over.
At last Rafi, who did not work in the building and so owed it nothing, said, "Does anyone else hate this song?"
Silence. Then Mrs. Fischer whispered, "Every single day." "For eleven years," said Gloria. "I hear it in my sleep," said Dev. Everyone turned to look at Mr. Landau, who was studying the ceiling with great interest. "I chose it," he said at last. "A man from the music company said it would make people happy." Then he began to laugh, helplessly, and so did everyone else.
They started to hum, and then to sing along, very badly, and Mr. Abel sang in a deep voice, holding his plant like a microphone. Thirty minutes later the doors opened on the eighth floor, and they stepped out as friends.
The next morning, in the elevator, Dev hummed the song. Gloria joined in, then Mrs. Fischer, then Mr. Landau, while the new passengers stared at them. Rule four: hum.
