Account of the Door
Door began to appear seven months ago. Usually right next to the bathroom.
The first time I went through, I found myself in my old apartment. It
had to be mine. There were my bluejeans draped over the computer. Of
course, I didn’t recognize the Ralph Nader poster on the wall. Nor could
I explain the parakeet.
was during my second trip through the door that I discovered the nefarious
pattern behind its appearances. I walked into a kitchen. I recognized
the knitted potholders hanging above the stove. It was an ex-girlfriend’s
house. Amy wasn’t there. But her parents were.
asked me about my thoughts on the upcoming election, and about what
I’d like for dinner. I tried to tell them about my life now, my work,
my friends. Nothing I said dispelled their illusion that I belonged
there. Nor did they ask me to explain my presence - that was the worst
part. That my visit was treated as perfectly natural; as if there was
no violation of physics or nature in my being there. As if they’d forgotten
what I’d done to Amy.
Some of those I meet are hardly even acquaintances.
That fat elderly lady - I cursed her under my breath because she drove
so slowly. She waits for me on a ratty, tweed couch. Patting my knee,
she offers me bread pudding. I find Kevin Chappell whom I betrayed for
popularity when I was twelve. He waves me over to play darts in a basement
gameroom and thrusts a bowl of popcorn toward me.
time I come into their rooms, they sit down with me as if I’ve always
lived there and then, the bastards, then they offer me food.