Caitlin Woodward

The other day, I was headed to work, riding up the elevator in my office building. A white-haired business man got in the elevator with me. You could tell he was high in ranks by the quality of his suit, but he also a natural smile about him, no doubt had a couple of grandchildren.

I pushed the "6" button, and he didn't push anything. Apparently he was going there too. It was silent for the first three floors. Then he said, "Who you going to see?" Already I was thrown off by the phrasing. After an unnecessary pause of confusion, since it made me look like I had to think (this is the same pause when someone asks me how old I am), I replied, "RocketFuel."

He looked at me. "Does your daddy work there?"

Oh. Right. This hadn't happened in a long time. "No."

"Your mommy?"

"Um. No."

He looked at me.

"I work there."

Then he did this weird jump backwards, like he had been startled. "How old are you?!"

Turns out he works at what my office calls the "Last Name Company." It's actually a company name compromising of five last names.