In the Harbor Tower, the elevator had rules. Nobody had written them down, but everybody knew them, like the rules of a dentist's waiting room. 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, in a gray suit; 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?"
The silence that followed had a different quality. 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, with his eyes shut, and the others, one by one, joined him.
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. The tune that had been a torture for eleven years was now the only thing all six of them knew by heart. When the doors opened on the eighth floor, 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 in alarm. Rule four: hum.
