The Door of Unmade Choices: Chapter 9

 

Chapter 9 — A Better Version, Maybe

The second time is always worse.

The first time through a door like that, you’re distracted by novelty. The sounds and smells lure you in, almost hypnotizing you. Time freezes for you as you soak up some half-baked notion of a reality that never really was but you convince yourself it all happened. The second time, your brain starts taking notes, comparing memories against one another.

Frank and I left The Perpetual Egg for the door in the alley across the street. Different doors can playback different moments. The alley door waited for us like it hadn’t moved at all. It looked different from the one at The Perpetual Egg. This one was elegantly understated with small pane of stained glass in the top center. Its deep red color was warm and cozy. The same faint vibration emanated under the surface, like a refrigerator you could hear through a wall at three in the morning.

Frank hesitated as he reached for the shiny doorknob. He closed his eyes to once again summon the courage needed to open the door. We stood just inside the entrance of a small, nameless dive bar where a few patrons sat watching Frank’s ragtag grunge band. The music was louder this time. Not because the band was playing harder, but because Frank was listening differently. The room snapped into focus. Amps buzzed. Cables coiled like lazy snakes, condensation rings on a folding table that had once been white.

Alternate Frank was mid-song.

He moved with the kind of confidence that comes from believing one day he would perform for thousands. He laughed between verses, leaning into the mic like he shared a sacred bond with it. The small, forgiving crowd laughed with him. Someone shouted his name.

“Yeah, Frank! Whoo!”

Current Frank’s shoulders loosened. Just a little.

“He looks happy,” Frank said.

I chose not to speak and watched the room instead. The details people miss when they’re distracted by the idealized version of their younger self. The drummer’s eyes flicking to the clock. The way the bassist adjusted his strap like it had been bothering him for weeks. The empty stool by the wall that suggested someone had quit quietly.

Alternate Frank finished the song and acknowledged the enthusiastic applause. He wiped his hands on his jeans, grinning.

“See?” Frank said. “He found his place. He found a home.”

“He found a moment,” I said. “Moments are generous but they’re also fleeting.”

Frank frowned but kept watching.

The band launched into another song. It was good but not great. Familiar chords, safe progression. The kind of song you write when you know what works and stop looking deeper.

“You notice how he doesn’t look surprised anymore?” I asked.

Frank shook his head. “You’re reaching.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe this life kept him just successful enough to stay put.”

Alternate Frank missed a cue. Covered it with a joke. The crowd laughed again, but it landed softer this time. Current Frank smiled anyway.

“That could’ve been me,” he said.

“It still could,” I said. “Just not like this.”

He turned to me. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“You’re like some unhelpful spirit guide,” he said. “You’re all cryptic and abstract. And this is all like some warped version of A Christmas Carol or It’s A Wonderful Life.”

I watched the edges of the room. They were closer perceptibly closer. The way a hallway feels narrower when you’re late. The air in the bar thickened. The hum beneath the music deepened, tuned to something inside Frank that was warming up.

Behind us, the door vibrated and hummed. It was listening.

Alternate Frank leaned into the mic again, sweat on his brow now, smile still there but working harder for it. The song stretched on. Too long.

Frank stepped forward.

“Careful,” I said, extending my arm to stop him.

“I just want to hear the end,” he said.

The hum sharpened. The room leaned in.

The doorway behind us—where the alley should have been—felt farther away. Not gone. Just considering its options.

“Frank,” I said, trying to make myself heard above the music. “This is the part they don’t show you. This is not stable. It’s not sustainable. You’re in a volatile timeline. We need to go.”

He hesitated. For a moment, I thought he might listen. Then Alternate Frank laughed again—big, easy—and Frank smiled back. The hum surged. The doorway narrowed like a lens finding focus. I grabbed Frank’s arm. Harder than before.

“Time,” I said. “Now.”

He looked at the door. Really looked. I could tell he really wanted to stay there in that illusion of hope. For the first time, uncertainty flickered across his face. We stepped back. The room exhaled. The music dulled. The hum softened, annoyed but compliant. The alley rushed in around us like a magical set change. Frank pulled his arm free, breathing fast.

“That was still better,” he said. “Even with the flaws.”

I didn’t argue. I just looked at the door, now a little thinner than it had been before, like it was learning what it could get away with. The dark red from before was now faded and worn.

“I keep telling you these are illusions,” I said. “They keep showing up because you keep thinking something real awaits. Only when you choose to accept the now will these go away.”

Frank turned and walked away, dejected and sad. Behind us, the door waited. 

*****

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