Innocent But Feeling Guilty

I pushed the up button on the
elevator and waited for a few
seconds; the door opened, an
unkempt, rumpled, heavyset
man emerged rapidly and hurried
away. I stepped in and was hit
with a noxious, waft of fresh
flatulence which hung heavy
like a toxic nuclear cloud.
The door closed,the elevator
ascended and I was trapped in
Sartre’s No Exit and Kafka’s The
. On the way up, hoping no
one would be waiting to get on
once the door opened, I wondered
what I would say if someone
happened to be waiting. As the
elevator slowed, I frantically
thought the truth would surely win
out, which, of course, it never
would: “I wasn’t the guy who blew
the fart! Really!” “What? Oh,
right. Sure. Oh, that’s terrible.”
It was then I wished I had the dog
with me: “Sorry, it was my dog.
He gets gas when we travel.” The
door opened and…there was no
one waiting to get on. Like the
guy who got off on the first floor,
guiltily, I hurried out of the elevator,
waving my hand behind me attempting
to dissipate the odor and hoping no
one would emerge from a room and
head to the elevator while passing
me on the way. I heard a door open
as I fumbled for my key.


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