The Mystery of The Push Bars

If breathing required an ability to problem solve - even if were no more than on a preschool level - a healthy percentage of the people I interact with on a daily basis would be dead.

Example:
The waiting room door opens and a young man with his jeans precariously hooked somewhere south of his hips and a baseball cap hiding most of his face stumbles/saunters in.  The fact that a) he has walked into a doctor's office and b) I am in scrubs, seated at a computer behind a glass window and c) ask if I can help him doesn't fool him for a second.

You work here? he mumbles.

I consider telling him no, there were no empty seats at the bus stop but as I've been recently reprimanded for not being "welcoming enough" (the doctor overheard me lose my temper with the automated Medicare insurance verification system), I force a smile and reluctantly tell him yes.

Where the kid doctor, he then says, Why they ain't got no sign.

Example:
As I leave for lunch I'm stopped by a young woman in the hall, also in search of the pediatrician.

It's all the way at the other end of the building, I tell her and to emphasize the direction, I point.  But there's no inside entrance so you'll have to go outside and walk down.

She nods, thanks me, and then asks me "which" other end.

The opposite end, I say sharply (To hell with welcoming), The end that isn't this end!  Glazed eyes, slack jaw. That way! and I point again.

She nods then makes her way to the (clearly marked "PUSH") double entry doors and grabs the push bar on the left door and pulls mightily.  When this doesn't work, she grabs the push bar on the right door and tries again.
When that also fails, she takes a hesitant step backward and looks bewildered.

I find myself wondering how she got into the building in the first place.

It's a mystery.