Governor Mary Fallin of Oklahoma exited an elevator on Monday morning in Midtown Manhattan, setting off an improbable rapid-fire staccato of clicking cameras in a building lobby. If you missed Fallin speak at the Republican National Convention in Cleveland—I was there and missed her, too—this was another national coming out. There she was, live from the lobby of Trump Tower, in Midtown Manhattan, dressed in a conservative, blue pantsuit and floral scarf, and, well, without a lot to say. “It was just an initial meeting to discuss a wide range of topics,” she said to nearby reporters. “Thank you for being here.” Then she headed off amid the white noise of background chatter and New Yorkers carrying takeout coffee and white plastic grocery bags.

Donald Trump, who has attested that he is a uniter, appears to have bridged the journalistic gulf represented by C-SPAN, which produces a live and ceaseless broadcast of the Trump Tower elevator, and the Drudge Report, which airs it. Having taken the weekend off—as we know, the building’s namesake was theatrically interviewing job candidates at Trump National Golf Club in Bedminster, New Jersey—Elevatorcam, a 24/7 window into the transition of the most influential elective office in the world, is very much back.

VIDEO: Donald Trump’s Short List for Cabinet

On one level, Elevatorcam is really just a window into elevators at the Trump Tower in Midtown Manhattan—the conveyance of necessity for the president-elect’s aides and those also aspiring to a White House or Cabinet job. It doesn’t say much for privacy, of course, that so many folks are captured, in many cases unknowingly. If you were a true snoop, with too much time on your hands, you could speculate about who all these people are. Were any secretive liaisons playing out before you? (Hey, that sharp-looking guy, laughing a bit too heartily at an attractive woman’s comment: Are they just professional colleagues? Or something more?) It indirectly reminds one of the great 1954 Alfred Hitchcock thriller, Rear Window, rife with the tension- and mystery-filled hypotheses of Jimmy Stewart, confined to a wheelchair in his apartment after breaking a leg, as to what’s going on in the courtyard below and the apartments across the way.

This was sort of the same but, because it’s Trump, New York City, and the modern media age, far less ambiguous. Jimmy Stewart couldn’t hear people discuss a decent Cuban restaurant in the hood, the nearest gift shop, or the e-mail system at McClatchy (aural proof of the journalists hovering nearby). You could also hear disembodied voices on Monday morning discuss covering Chris Christie while viewing passersby pick their nose, scratch their butt, and fiddle with nose hair.