The Door

There’s a door he sees from time to time. It’s not a real door. Sometimes the image appears over a real door. It’s of rotting wood, green and black with mold, and overwhelmed with water, so much so that it drips onto any real surface he pictures it in.

Tonight, he saw the door at an office party hosted at a downtown bar. He spoke with the husband of one of his coworkers. The husband, whose name wasn’t worth remembering, asked what his role was at the company.

“Marketing.” He answered, making eye contact only when speaking the word. In between, his gaze was fixed on the rotting door he saw beyond the husband’s head.

This night, the door took the place of a very real glass entrance of the downtown bar.

“Wow! There’s a lot of money there, huh?” The husband, who he almost forgot he was talking to, commented with that commonplace greedy enthusiasm. The husband sipped his drink and nudged his partner who had been talking with someone else this whole time.

Boom! A harsh knock came on the real, not-so-real door. 

Water that over-encumbered the metaphysical door sprinkled off and dampened the doormat.

“Yep. That is true.” He replied heaving a large sigh, trying to dismiss this rudimentary, reoccurring conversation. He raised his glass, squinted his eyes, smiled at the forgettable husband, and drank.

Boom! A knock came again, louder this time.

No one turned to the rotting door when the knock sounded. No one could see the door other than him. Everyone walked through the very real glass door beneath it.

After this exchange, he skipped out and drove home.

He rarely saw the rotting door at home. When reading a book, or watching television, the door became a distant, almost non-existent thing.

The door followed him to work.

At a desk pressed against a grayish wall, he saw the door only when he swiveled out in his chair.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

The knocks came most frequently then. On calls and when eating at his desk. He purposefully looked at the door that no one else could see.

The state of the door did not change. The creases did not expand nor close up. It sweats at the same rate. A perpetual state of wetness, darkness, and disrepair.

The door appeared to him again, with more prominence and attentiveness, at his mother’s birthday.

He was voluntarily collecting dishes and glasses after dinner, washing them while everyone else occupied the living room and back patio.

“Hello, sweet pea.” His mother said sing-songy. She waltzed to him. He leaned into her half-hug when she gave one and whispered “hello” back.

“Hey, look.” She whispered, tapping his back.

He shut the sink off and followed her pointing finger.

“You see her over there?” His mother whispered, tipping her glass in the desired direction.

Gathered in the living room was his dad, an older and younger woman. He recognized the older one being a newer work friend of his mother’s. Didn’t know her name.

“That’s my coworker’s daughter there.” His mother pointed at the younger woman.

He looked at the woman in question. She kept her brown hair right at her shoulders. Dimples. A wide smile. Laughing at something someone said, her face came into view. She had large, almond eyes. Her dark skin was smooth. Her face, remarkably beautiful.

“Very nice, mom.” Was all he said, turning the sink back on and returning to the dishes.

Another repeated conversation was on the rise. He foresaw it the moment he felt his mother’s presence.

“What?” His mother nudged him, maintaining her playful tone. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“She’s very pretty, mom.”

“Talk to her.”

“I’m alright.”

“Why?”

He sighed. It flustered him that as often as this conversation occurred, it didn’t seem that his mother remembered what he said or chose not to listen.

“I know what you’re doing. I’m not ready for those kinds of things.” He answered the same as he always did.

And she answered how she always does: “Of course you’re ready. You have a good job, with good money. You will have a nice house soon. You need someone to share it with. What are you waiting for?”

He inhaled, stopping the dishwashing, then continued on the exhale. “You’re right. Not now, though. It’s your birthday, I don’t want it to be a big deal.”

After placing a plate on the drying rack, his eyes level with the bay window above the sink.

Boom! The door stood dead in the middle of his parent’s backyard. Under the porch light, the fleeting water bounced off clearly with every knock.

Drawing a long sigh, his mother grunted: “Thanks.” She patted his shoulder. “Would be a nice gift if you talked to her.” She slinked away, leaving no room for a reply. He wouldn’t have anyway. He never did.

His mother wasn’t as joyful with him for the remainder of the night. To make her content, he eventually surfaced from the kitchen and got acquainted with the other guests. He did speak to the pretty girl. A quick, obligatory exchange. She did not budge for him to elaborate. Neither one of them invited the other to speak privately as everyone would’ve wanted them to do.

When someone took the lead in the conversation, he glanced over at the screen door to the back patio. The door. His rotting door, still in the backyard, had moved closer to the house now.

The knob shook feverishly.

A slip of light, forming from nothing, came from underneath. It didn’t reflect on the grass cushioning the door. The light simply existed on its own.

Later in the night, he and his father sat out in the back while everyone else stayed inside.

They had a similar conversation that he and his mother had earlier. Each time he answered with “yes” as a way to move closer to the conversation’s end, the door knocked again and harder. The light underneath had since disappeared, and the handle turned no more.

“Your mother wants what’s best for you. We both do.” His father sipped from his whiskey. “You’ve made so many right decisions in life so far…” A silence sat for a minute.

Did I? He thought. Depends on how you look at it, I guess.

He saw the door creeping towards him.

His father saw growing grass lit by both moonlight and the bright porch light, unaffected by floating, rotting wood.

“Are you up for a promotion?” His father asked with little emotion. Almost as if he felt ordered to ask.

“I don’t know.”

“A raise?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still writing?”

“Not as much.”

His father hummed in response.

At mid-week, the young woman from his mother’s party texted him. Joan. They arranged dinner that Friday.

They ran into each other right outside the restaurant.

They walked in together through the very real green wood door.

Waiting for their drinks to come, Joan started the conversation after some awkward introductions.

“Your parents mentioned you write books. Or that you used to.” Her voice was soft, yet there was excitement there. Energy that was being purposefully contained.

“Yes. I used to.” He rubbed his chin and then ran his hand across his scalp. “That’s funny, they never really bring it up out of context. They don’t have much to say other than my work.”

Their drinks came, interrupting them.

“Do you like your job?” She played with her straw, whilst making intent eye contact with him.

The question made him perk up. “It’s work.” His typical, passive answer he gave to people he knew wouldn’t judge him if he said anything other than: Good! I really love it.

“Marketing.” These were the words he chose to follow up with.

She hummed with interest. “What got you to choose that?”

Up until this point, the door hadn’t appeared. Not overtaking the image of another door. Nor smack in the middle of the dining floor where waiters and patrons can casually walk through it.

He stammered, anticipating it now. “Well, my father’s a businessman. My mom’s a career saleswoman as you know. I don’t know, I think it was the only correct thing to do.” He started to sweat, just as he always did when he orated this exact spiel.

There! The rotting, creeping, crease-ridden, sweating door appeared behind Joan. Its water fell to her shoulders and hair. She didn’t notice.

“I know you technically answered my question.” She spoke. “But why did you choose it?”

Then came a knocking flurry. Harsher knocks. They came frequently and fast. Its sweat burst and never dried.

He tried to act as if he didn’t hear the pounding. Feel the knocking in his head or the sweat consuming his every pore.

“I just felt like it was the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do.”

Joan peered down her drink and didn’t answer immediately.

She stared up, her almond eyes glazed. “Does it make you happy?”

He leaned back in his chair and nervously rubbed his chest, letting out an uncontrolled exhale. “That’s a deep cut.” He laughed nervously.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pressure you.” She apologized.

He continued to stir, not making any eye contact with her. The door was behind her. He couldn’t look.

The knob on the door turned. The knocking was louder than it had ever been.

He kept his stare on the front window of the restaurant.

He blinked.

The door moved to where his eyes opened, forcing him to look.

“No, it’s okay.” He said, looking into her eyes. His voice holding little tremor. “It’s just hard to admit something, knowing you’ll let a lot of people down.”

Joan formed a small grin. “What good is money if you aren’t proud of how you’re earning it?”

“Or what good is a job if it doesn’t fulfill you in all the ways money can’t?” The words came out fluidly. At this, his mind cleared. His world felt lighter and wide.

He thought he’d take back what he said.

The door stayed but stopped moving. He walked through it.

They had changed the subject and never went back to it the following six Fridays when they met for dinner.

During that time, they became good friends. The door only appeared to him when he expected the subject to be brought up. Then it would fade quickly. She asked more about his writing. He hesitated but begin to write again. He came around to emailing her with new work or handed her paper copies when they had dinner.

“You should send this one in.” She said tapping on the manuscript between them. “Give it a try at least. There’s no harm.” A water glass, heavy with condensation, began to wet the paper.

The door stood over her.

“There’s rejection.”

“There’s trying again. There’s rejection in the corporate world, too.” She reached for his hand. “What you’ve sent me over these past weeks, they’ve all been good. But this one’s the one to turn in. I wouldn’t lead you into a lion’s den.”

He looked down at her hand on his. To the manuscript. The water traveling slowly and diagonally on the paper.

When meeting her eyes, the door was there in his peripheral.

Nervously scratching his head, his outstretched elbow knocked a plastic cup from a coming waiter’s tray. The cup crashed on the floor and water spread quickly.

He let go of Joan’s hand to help the waiter who he kept apologizing to.

In ducking underneath the table, he saw the light. The light underneath the door birthed from nothing. A bright light existing in its own universe.

He dried the floor with table napkins as the waiter laid paper towels.

When all was done, he returned to Joan. Returned to the door. But the door wasn’t directly behind her. It took place of the green wood door they came in from.

The knob turned, patiently this time. He saw the light creeping out below. The door was stained with mold and sweating profusely.

“Sorry about that.” He said, directing his focus to Joan.

She smiled. “Nobody’s fault.” Her eyes averted him and went to the manuscript. She moved it closer to him. “Hey. This is calculated risk. Keep your day job till one day you might not need it.”

He walked through the rotting door that day. The first of many rotting doors. Each time he did so, he made sure he found the light beyond it. It continued to knock, but over time it lessened and eventually stopped altogether.

While others would continue to see a rotting door, he watched its creases close up and the water dry. He kept walking through this door.