My earliest memory of obsolescence was the sudden disappearance of Alfred, the Maltese-born elevator man in the small Manhattan loft building where my father's firm made plastic business novelties. One day, when I was eight and visiting my dad's office (always a treat because I could pound away on his industrial-strength typewriter and fantasize about a writer's life), the elevator was out of commission and Alfred was no longer around. It took three months before an automatic elevator was running, but Alfred would never return.

He was supplanted by buttons on a control panel and relays behind a rudimentary computing system that
couldn't replace Alfred's extra-elevator skills as a daytime watchman, neighborhood information resource, and thoroughbred racing tout extraordinaire. After he was gone, there were thefts in the building as well as frequent breakdowns of the automated elevator, but never any talk of bringing Alfred back.