Elevator Stories

Up and down a shaft with metal ropes streaming from the twenty other floors above, the people take the elevator as the choice vertical transportation. And in a building with some twenty floors, three thousand freshmen, and an additional number of upperclassmen and law students, oh, you bet something interesting goes on.

Overpopulation: No, the six-day class did not fix anything.
Chaos is the standard here.

Welcome to Froshland, where all freshmen are subject to take their classes, and where all students from the De La Salle University College of Law and College of Education are sentenced to suffer with them. Stairs are your best friends here, because you can always, always expect that the lobby of Andrew Hall is crammed with people lined up for the elevator.

It’s been over a year since I had a class in Froshland, and the Freshmen are insufferable, I’m telling you.

My classmates and I—four other juniors, one senior—shared our deadliest Frosh Elevator Stories for the day.

Disclaimer:

Dear Frosh, I love you all. But seriously?

(1)    Compress!

I was in the elevator, and on the seventh floor, a group of six freshmen squeezed in, assembled in a trademark Frosh circle of friends.

Their class just ended and they were about to go home. But the elevator was going up—they were taking a round-trip so they wouldn’t have to wait for an empty elevator to go down. I let it go; I’ve scolded freshmen before about round-trips and I didn’t want to have to go through that mess again. When I got to my floor, the elevator doors opened.

“Excuse me,” I said.

And instead of going out of the elevator to give way, they squeezed in tighter together into a messy huddle.

It wasn’t until now that I found out that you have to be in the upper class to understand the social protocols of stepping aside in elevator traffic.

(2)    Overpopulation

Camy was on the elevator, and on one of the floors, when the elevator door opened, people—quite naturally—left through the door.

A frosh exclaimed, “Shocks, ang daming lumalabas!

Which basically just means, “Shocks, a lot of people are leaving!”

I think the main purpose of an elevator is for you to leave the elevator once you reach your destination.

(3)    Line-Up

Jo was waiting in the lobby, in line for the elevator just like everyone else. It takes about ten to fifteen minutes for the elevator to travel up the twenty floors and go back down, but she waits calmly—this is normal.

Her moment of Zen gets broken when a Frosh cuts in line, goes in front of her. When the elevator doors open, but for a different line of students, he switches lanes and squeezes in with them.

I’m wondering how many seniors and fellow freshmen were holding their temper for this kid.

This never happens, unless it's 9PM or a Sunday.
Ah, the sweet, rare, calm view. (Image via WikiMedia)

To the upper class who may be reading this, I’m certain you know the feeling. We’ve all been Freshmen too. In fact, I have a story from my Frosh days.

Nicole and her friends waited for an elevator to go down. Naturally, I took the stairs. I always did that when going down, and on most mornings, even going up to the eleventh floor. I didn’t really care if no one would go with me. One, I liked stairs. Two, I was used to being alone.

For Nicole & Co., since the elevator was taking too long, they rode one going up—round trip. A senior riding with them, clearly annoyed by the disregard of freshmen for the general sense of courtesy, and also the excessive chatter of grouped friends in an enclosed space, couldn’t help but express his annoyance.

“You’re not allowed to go on round trips,” he remarked, quite snarkily.

“Is that in the handbook?” Nicole said, her rhetorical sass-back sounded innocent and frosh-like. It was a ‘you’re not the boss of anyone’ remark that sounded like a stupid question from an unknowing, rule-following Frosh

“Go read it, then!” was all that the senior could answer in reply.

Telling these stories makes me feel like an oldie, with shaky fingers trying to grip onto an all-important walking cane, starting stories with, “back in my day!”, and ending them with, “you young whipper-snappers! Kids these days!”

So dear upper class, let us never forget those humbling days of our long forgotten youth.

And Frosh, please do us a favor and avoid triggering the fiery temperament of your seniors. If you’ve done any of these things, we forgive you.

Don’t do it again.

Young whipper-snappers.

Ugh, frosh these days.

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