I stood on Madison Avenue, looking at the towering glass building across from me. From where I stood I had to strain my neck to see the tip of the spire adorning the modern monolith. I looked for the sixty-third floor. A man in a corner office there, sitting in his black leather chair behind a rich, mahogany desk would soon be determining my fate.

I walked down to the crosswalk at the end of the block, picturing what it would be like to make the commute every day. The light switched to the white WALK signal. I started out across the street, following the flow of bodies across the street. How odd it was that in a city so artificial, every action seemed perfectly natural; the honk of the horn, the call from the imitation purse dealers, the perfectly orchestrated dance of cars and people across an entire island.
Caught up in a metaphysical trance over the city-that-never-sleeps, I miss the edge of the sidewalk on the other side, my foot coming down in a massive puddle. Murky, oil-glistening water sprays up across my pair of black Brooks Brothers pants, newly bought for this occasion. Groaning, I lean down to try to sluice off as much of the dregs as I can.
Giving my feet one final shake, I pull open the massive glass door, entering the lobby of a post-modernist dream. Radiating an air of cold professionalism, the smooth, light grey cement walls stood in quiet juxtaposition against the bright panes of glass which captured the bustle of the city while separating the two worlds of outside and in. I strode across the hard stone floor to the bank of golden elevators in the middle of the atrium. Standing alongside men in Armani suits, I tried to hold myself with an air of dignity. One of the men gave me a disapproving, sideways glass and I realized that I was puffing out my chest way more than was deemed normal. I quickly pulled it back in, red in the face.
The elevator arrived and the group waiting outside filed into the tiny enclosure. The people around me began telling floor numbers to the old, kindly-looking attendant in a crisp burgundy uniform.
“Thirty-seven,” said a man with slicked back hair.
“Twelve,” came from a woman in a black, pinstriped suit.
When everyone had finished giving their floors, a silence swept the chamber. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t given my floor yet. “S-s-s-ixty-six,” I stuttered. “Wait! No! Sixty... Sixty... uh...” Everyone in the elevator began to shoot hostile glares in my direction. “Oh wait! Sixty-three!”
“You s-s-sure about that?” a man next to me jeered. I shied into the corner, trying to act as small as possible.
The elevator doors closed, and the small room shot up into through the building, abruptly stopping at the correct floors. By the time we had reached the sixty-third floor, the elevator was empty save the aged attendant. When the doors opened for the last time, I froze for a second, awestruck. The hall that lay in front of me was the most decadent I had ever seen. Plush, velvet couches sat either side of the polished, marble floor. On paneled walls hung large oil portraits of men in black suits, gazing down upon anyone who entered with a haughty, confident gaze. At the end of the corridor seated behind a large oak desk was a secretary, hair put up tightly in a prim and proper bun.
After a second pause, I began moving forward, full of uncertainty. As I stepped outside the elevator doors, I heard a voice behind me. “Hey.” I looked back. It was the elderly attendant. “You got this, kid.”