@fireslung
The elevator doors slide open and a girl with some sign he doesn’t care to read rushes past him. He’ll have to fire whatever unpaid intern let her sneak through the lobby. He steps around her into the elevator and presses the button for the tenth floor. She throws an arm in front of the doors, stopping them from closing.
He huffs out an annoyed sigh. Exasperated:
“Okay. Alright. Okay. What is this? What are you doing here? Is this a protest? Are you protesting me?”
He pulls out his best de niro impression (it’s not bad, it’s pretty good; it better be, he practices it every day--during slow phone conferences or when he’s hiding in his office letting constituent calls go to his secretary and interns--and he holds his conscience hostage while he does it):
“Are you protesting me?”
Back to the point.
“Listen. Get in ‘ere.” He gestures curtly for them to join him in the elevator. “Listen. You think some teenage girl with a homemade sign is going to change my mind?”
He makes a come on face.
He’s made his point. He can stop. But he’s on a role. He’s got one more good line in him.
“I’m not a flip flop. You’re not wearing me out on no beach, kid.”