The Button That Does Nothing: Lessons in Powerlessness from the Elevator Close Door
Fooled you Ha Ha
Why Do Elevators Close Faster If You Mash The Button Like You’re Defibrillating A Cardiac Arrest Victim?
There is a silent ritual that unites all of humanity, regardless of nationality, faith, or number of LinkedIn followers: The frantic mashing of the “close door” button in an elevator.
Picture this:
You’re running late for your weekly status sync. You know the one—the meeting where absolutely nothing gets decided, but everyone agrees to “take it offline” so you can repeat the ritual next week.
You reach the elevator bank. Ding. The doors open. There is a lone person inside, staring blankly at their phone with the posture of someone who has lost the will to read privacy policies ever again. You step in, press your floor, and wait. The doors begin their slow crawl shut.
That’s when a foot appears.
Not just any foot. A black leather oxford shoe attached to Bob from Accounting, a man who once explained compound interest to you at a holiday party while you contemplated eating a poinsettia just to escape. Bob wedges himself in, presses Floor 12, and stands there breathing audibly through his nose.
The doors begin to close again. Bob leans forward and mashes the “close door” button like he’s performing CPR on a water buffalo. Tap. Tap-tap. TAPTAPTAP. He then exhales loudly, as if the elevator’s refusal to obey him is a moral failing on its part.
And of course, the doors close at the exact same glacial pace they always do. Because—and here’s the secret—most elevator “close door” buttons are lies.
The Great Button Hoax
Yes. The “close door” button is a placebo. Like decaf coffee, herbal weight loss pills, or “reply all” for company announcements. In most modern elevators, the button isn’t connected to anything except your own desperate optimism.
Manufacturers disconnected these buttons decades ago to comply with accessibility regulations requiring doors to remain open long enough for everyone to board safely. But they left the buttons there to prevent mass elevator-based psychosis. Because if humans are denied even the illusion of control in a 6x6 steel box, society collapses faster than your phone battery at 2% with no charger in sight.
The Psychology of Mashing
Still, we press. We always press.
Because somewhere deep in our lizard brains is a voice whispering, “Maybe this time it will work.”
This is the same voice that convinces you that refreshing a shipping tracking page seventeen times in a row will make the package appear faster. Or that pressing the pedestrian crosswalk button repeatedly will cause the traffic lights to say, “You know what? He seems busy today. Let’s give him a break.”
Elevators as Corporate Metaphor
The elevator is the workplace in miniature:
You stand there, staring at the floor numbers ascending like your performance review goals.
You pretend you don’t hear Carol from HR softly crying into her oat milk latte behind you.
You watch Bob from Accounting mash the button, thinking it will bend time and space to his will—just like his budget projections.
Meanwhile, the elevator makes its own decisions. Because no matter how much you press that button, you’re not in control. The building is in control. The software is in control. And it will let you out when it’s damn well ready, thank you very much.
The Button’s Real Purpose
The real function of the “close door” button isn’t to close the door. Its purpose is to give you something to do so you don’t start screaming at the ceiling camera or peering too closely at that suspicious stain on the floor from 2003.
It’s corporate fidgeting: a way to channel your existential dread into an action that feels purposeful, even if it accomplishes absolutely nothing.
What We Learn From The Button
Ultimately, the “close door” button teaches us three universal truths:
Most of life’s controls are illusions.
Pressing harder rarely helps.
There will always be a Bob from Accounting.
Final Thoughts
So next time you find yourself in an elevator, staring longingly at that little silver button, take a moment. Breathe deeply. Accept that you are powerless in that moment. Or go ahead and press it anyway, because it’s 8:53 AM and your boss is the type to send calendar invites marked “High Importance” for meetings titled “Quick Chat.”
Because hope, my friends, springs eternal. Especially in the windowless steel box between Floor 1 and Floor 14, where the only thing you really control is whether you look at your phone or your shoes while you wait for the universe to decide your fate.
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