What's All This Four?

I might be a socially inept retard when it comes to functioning in the "out there" among "the others," but I understand elevator etiquette just fine. If I am the first to board an empty car, I am kind enough to ask, "Which floor?"

"Four, please."

Is it my fault that as I extend my finger for the button, I tend to hesitate? I am suddenly worried about the possibility that we are not actually in the elevator at all. We have stepped into some kind of time/space machine, and pressing 4 will take us back to some random time or place having to do with the number four. Age Four, Four o'clock. Fourth Grade. The Fourth of July. The movie, I am Number Four.The Four Gospels. The Four Corners. The Four Horsemen. Four score and seven years ago...

I hesitate, frightened of the possibilities, and then I suck it up and press that Number Four with wild abandon, crazy with anticipation.

There's no turning back. I have either freed us or doomed us with the simple push of a button.Where will we end up?

My gut clenches as we are whisked away. Blip. Blip. Blip.

The doors slide silently open, revealing the new world in which we must carve our own paths.

 I was right all along.

Here we are on the Fourth Floor.

Library.