My version of driving a Hummer

How many people must I talk to before downing my morning Red Bull? There was already “Nine O’Clock Guy” Guy at my subway stop, who has lately been asking me what the weather’s like above ground -- adding to my suspicion that he sleeps, mummy-like, in a Charlie Ticket dispenser after the T shuts down. Now there’s a chirpy young woman at the sign-in desk in my office building who asks how my weekend was and did I see the Duck Tour go by and how about those Red Sox and Zzzzzz.... The worst thing is that when I wait for the express elevator, she helpfully points out that there’s room in the local elevator (I can take either). Look, I don’t drive a car, I don’t have central air-conditioning in my apartment, and I don’t shoot little varmints. My worst environmental offense is making that express elevator go up or down 11 floors so that I can have a private ride. I don’t want to know what the lower-floor people talk about, and I don’t want to know what they smell like at the beginning or at the end of their workdays. By the way, anyone who wants to get into the building without signing in just uses the basement entrance.