The Door of Unmade Choices: Chapter 3

 

CHAPTER 3: Popcorn in Your Teeth

 

Frank’s backyard looked exactly the way a backyard should look in January: dead grass, a barbecue grill longing to be lit so it could serve its purpose, and a tired fence that was still standing despite its desire to just topple over and be put out of its misery. Snow clung to the shaded corners like it was hoping no one would notice it hadn’t melted yet. Yes, all perfectly normal for a January. Or, maybe I was projecting my own internal monologue onto this poor laid-off sap’s suburban sanctuary. Dr. Calico Verde says I project too much.

Still, I knew something had been there.

“You don’t see it?” Frank asked. He stood about three steps behind; hands tucked into the pockets of that nice wool coat. His breath came out it in tight, controlled puffs.

“I see its presence,” I told him. “I just don’t see the actual door itself. It’s kind of like knowing you have a piece of popcorn stuck in your teeth, but you can’t see it. The popcorn is there. Taunting you with its existence. But you can’t quite see it.”

“Oh,” Frank said, like he knew what I was talking about out of courtesy.

That was the problem with metaphysical anomalies. They didn’t leave visible evidence of their existence. More like the emotional equivalent of furniture marks on the carpet you swear you vacuumed yesterday.

I stepped closer to the patch of ground where Frank pointed. The temperature dipped just enough as I knelt down to inspect the spot. I shouldn’t have knelt down. My knees ached and ankles groaned. My soul concurred. Cold spots weren’t about the temperature, you see. They were about absence. A void. Cold spots usually indicated that something had displaced reality and left without cleaning up after itself the way my buddy Lars did when he would come over to watch rugby. Eat all the snacks. Drink all the beer. Leave his shit everywhere. Leave. That was Lars. And that was this anomaly. Frank watched me carefully, like he was waiting on mechanic to tell him why his car wouldn’t start.

“I’m telling you it was right there,” he said. “A typical door. Like someone’s front door. Not fancy. Beige. Boring, honestly.”

“That’s why you opened it. Doors like to be approachable. If they came glowing in purple with Latin chanting, nobody would open them.”

Frank pondered that while I crouched and pressed my palm against the frozen grass. It wasn’t a psychic. I didn’t get visions or vibes. No voices whispered their dark secrets into my skull nor did any spirits from another realm beckon to me. That’s not my bag. The ground felt tired like it was tired of answering the same questions all the time. I stood and for the first time really regarded Frank’s beleaguered expression.

“You haven’t slept,” I said to him.

“It’s that obvious?”

“I’m a detective, man. It’s my job to notice things. My guess is you’re not sleeping because you haven’t stopped thinking.”

He exhaled slowly, thoughtfully, like releasing air from a tire to relieve the pressure. “I close my eyes and I see it again. My old apartment. My guitar. My life. Or, what used to be my life.”

“And maybe what could’ve been your life?” I added. “That’s how The Door gets you. The lure of could’ve-beens and what-ifs.”

“Will it come back?

“The Door don’t just wander in and out. They orbit and hover, sensing a longing. Then, once it knows it can attach itself to a host.

Frank’s eyes darted back to the spot in the yard. “Like a parasite?”

“What happened before you saw the door?” I asked him.

He shivered at the question. Frank looked like he wanted to hug himself.

“I was in my man cave watching some show I have already seen a thousand times. I wasn’t even paying attention. Just lost in how pitiful my life had become. My wife and kids live across town with her new husband. No dates for me in months. No real friends to lean on. And now, no job. After 25 years goddamn years, I was told my services were no longer required. All I could think about was how it all got to this low point. I kept backtracking through all the stupid choices I had made, finding mistakes everywhere like trash that needed to be picked up.”

I looked at his closed-off posture and exhausted face. His eyes watered, either from a swell of emotion or the bite of the stirring wind. He shivered once again and shook his head.

“Frank, what you’re dealing with is a threshold entity known as The Door of Unmade Choices. It only appears when someone is experiencing a deep, unarticulated longing. People who feel like their life is closing in around them are particularly susceptible.”

Frank let that sink in before responding. “Are you saying I summoned this door?’

I nodded. “There’s more to it than that, but, yeah.”

“So what do we do?”

“That’s my job. I help you get you rid of it.”

“But I wasn’t wishing for anything. I didn’t ask the universe or God or whatever for a sign. I was just tired and sad and feeling sorry for myself.”

I shrugged. “That’s usually enough.”

Next door, a car failed to start despite its driver’s repeated attempts. The wind nipped a little harder at my cheeks and sharp chill slid up my spine. My phone buzzed so I checked the screen. A text from a number I recognized but never enjoyed seeing. Nothing personal against the number. It just meant something was up.

You might want to sit down. Preferably not where the door is.

“Damn,” I muttered and looked at Frank.

“What?”

I walked past him out of the backyard, into the front, and out onto his street. He followed along like a kid trying to catch up with a parent who was walking too fast. I glanced up the street where winter stretched in all directions.

“Looks like you weren’t the only one,” I said.

Somewhere across town, another door had decided it was time.

*****

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