The elevator brought the office life of building four, 1725 Slough Ave. down to Tate everyday.  Vance Refrigeration wasn’t dysfunctional and didn’t interest him in the least.  Although the two pothead delivery guys were annoying and had to be watched sometimes.  They tended to order pizza and then forget about it.  Stupid stoners.  But Dunder-Mifflin was a looney bin.  How that many crazies could be found in one place was beyond Tate.  He never knew what mood the employees from the third floor would be in when they stepped off that elevator.  The hyperactive boss might be quiet, or angry, or, it was possible, completely normal; the prissy blond always marched out, and he could usually hear the Indian girl before the doors opened to spit her out...the elevator probably couldn’t stand her voice either. 

The complex wasn’t exactly the location of military secrets, no matter what that nut job Dwight thought, so Tate had an easy go of it.  Except for Dwight’s frequent interrogations about his co-workers’ comings and goings.  He usually bs'ed about that for a little while until Dwight went away.  It was never far enough away though.

As each Dunder-Mifflinite trudged into the building, Tate took note of how they acted as they passed him.  He was intrigued by the way they entered the elevator doors, only to disappear from view for hours.  He’d never been one for daydreaming and all that, but now that he was semi-retired, he had all the time in the world.  He wondered what happened in that madhouse of an office that could make the sweet-faced receptionist of the morning exit the lobby doors a meek and downtrodden woman.