On a Beachfront Elevator

I walked onto the elevator and pushed the button for the 7th floor, the floor of the lovely gulfcoast condo we'd rented for the week. Just then a handsome young lad, with stylishly cut and neatly combed hair rushed in the elevator door, followed in quick succession by his two older brothers and their father. The youngster was probably about 10 years old and his brothers looked to be in the 16 to 20 year old range. I was standing closest to the elevator panel, so I asked which floor they'd like and the boy piped up, "The eighth floor, please."

I recognized them as the family I'd seen while walking on the beach that very morning. They were movie-star-good-looking and well-dressed, like the models you see posed in J Crew catalogs. You know that photogenic, but fashionably dressed-down look similar to Kennedy clan? I could easily picture them frolicking near a beach house on Nantucket Island. This morning the youngest had been running barefoot on the sand. In fact, I took a photo of his footprint, when I'd noticed that he was a forefoot strike runner, a style I'd been forced to adopt when my arthritic knees defiantly refused to tolerate my lifelong habit of landing on my heels.

The family, including the mother, trailed about 100 yards behind the barefoot boy, who ran full out, seemingly effortlessly. The mother had caught my eye because her hair was so perfectly coiffed, in one of one of those styles you get from top notch salons, but can't seem to duplicate at home.

I pushed the eighth floor button and the youngest called out," What about Mother!?" His brothers and father looked up in surprise. They hadn't noticed that she wasn't with them. Panic ensued, and the youngster leaned out and said with relief, "Here she comes." I reflexively reached over and depressed and held the button that keeps the elevator door open.  As he ducked back in the elevator, the boy noticed that by pushing the button I had stopped the elevator door from closing.

"What?!" With incredulity he looked to his brothers, "Did you see that? She stopped the elevator door with that button."  By now his mother had joined us in the elevator. So, I let go of the button I'd been holding and pressed the button that closes the elevator door. The family marveled over the two buttons. "Well, indeed!" said one of the older brothers, while the other stroked his chin, looked at his father in bemusement and said, "I had no idea..." The father shook his head, almost in disbelief, "Nor had I."

I moved against the back wall and the boy quickly stepped in front of the panel and ever so gently, almost reverently, ran his fingers over the elevator buttons. He looked over at me, as we neared the 7th floor, "I'll hold the door open for you," he said his hand moving toward the door open button.

I smiled politely at him and said, "Thanks." As I walked off the elevator I noticed that they all had crowded around the "magic" buttons.

This well-mannered family possessed no trace of foreign accent. They'd spoken with the near-perfect English of well-educated, native-born Americans. They were well-groomed and wearing the latest, high-end fashions. Their demeanor indicated obvious intelligence.

But, it's the little details that will give you away, and while these guys might dupe some people, they hadn't fooled me. No, sirree. What I can't figure out is from which galaxy had these alien beings come.