Green doors and stale smoke
I was standing in line at McDonalds (yeah, I already told you I'm a freakin pig...well at least this week), sipping on my health drink, made with a combination of fruits and other weird things I wouldn't normally venture to drink (who stands in line at McDonalds with a health drink??), and I looked across the road.
There's a building on the corner with a mobile phone store at the front, and in the side street, a pet supply store towards the back. Along the outer wall of the building is a door. A green door, to be precise. In the middle of a plain, nondescript wall. The address said 642 and there were gold numbers on the door, I suppose flat numbers, 1, 7, 3, 5, in various stages of falling off.
I've worked in this area and gone to that part of the suburb for over 3 years and I've never noticed that door before. Till today. Till a guy walked out the door. An old guy, in a grey suit. Not the frail kind of old person, but a taller man, greying, with a large beard, and conducting himself as if he had a real purpose to what he was doing and where he was going. (Probably only across the road to buy cigarettes and a bottle of something that comes in a brown paper bag.)
I wondered what was behind that door. What other world, what other people lurked up that narrow staircase? I imagined a world of smoke filled rooms, overflowing ashtrays and lounges with sheets draped over them to cover stains and tears. I imagined a tall candelabra, incence, wicker chairs and a lava lamp. Probably, Ella Fitzgerald was playing in the background, from a room with a single bed and a wooden cupboard with a door that doesn't quite shut, dusty books on a bedside table.
Across the road, in an entirely different world, I stood in the line. A workman behind me, standing too close for my liking, a mother and child discussing the virtues of orange juice over lemonade, a guy working on the Coke machine, too few servers behind the registers. Would you like to upsize that?
And still I stood and watched that door. How many doors are there in the world, just like the one across the street? Who lives there? Are they happy behind those doors? Doesn't anyone even know or care they're there? Why are these doors in these buildings always red or green? Who do they want to stop? Where do they go? Why are there no windows? Is it dark, only lit by a single globe hanging from the ceiling? Or do I have it all wrong? Maybe it's bright, lively and there are red and white checkered table clothes on square tables and a feeling of happiness and contentment.
Behind green doors are worlds that are a universe apart from mine. We may never meet. I may never know what's behind the green door across the road, or any other door just like it. But we're connected. And like worker ants, we each do our part to shape our own world and in turn, each other's.
Just don't ever let me end up behind one of those green or red doors.
There's a building on the corner with a mobile phone store at the front, and in the side street, a pet supply store towards the back. Along the outer wall of the building is a door. A green door, to be precise. In the middle of a plain, nondescript wall. The address said 642 and there were gold numbers on the door, I suppose flat numbers, 1, 7, 3, 5, in various stages of falling off.
I've worked in this area and gone to that part of the suburb for over 3 years and I've never noticed that door before. Till today. Till a guy walked out the door. An old guy, in a grey suit. Not the frail kind of old person, but a taller man, greying, with a large beard, and conducting himself as if he had a real purpose to what he was doing and where he was going. (Probably only across the road to buy cigarettes and a bottle of something that comes in a brown paper bag.)
I wondered what was behind that door. What other world, what other people lurked up that narrow staircase? I imagined a world of smoke filled rooms, overflowing ashtrays and lounges with sheets draped over them to cover stains and tears. I imagined a tall candelabra, incence, wicker chairs and a lava lamp. Probably, Ella Fitzgerald was playing in the background, from a room with a single bed and a wooden cupboard with a door that doesn't quite shut, dusty books on a bedside table.
Across the road, in an entirely different world, I stood in the line. A workman behind me, standing too close for my liking, a mother and child discussing the virtues of orange juice over lemonade, a guy working on the Coke machine, too few servers behind the registers. Would you like to upsize that?
And still I stood and watched that door. How many doors are there in the world, just like the one across the street? Who lives there? Are they happy behind those doors? Doesn't anyone even know or care they're there? Why are these doors in these buildings always red or green? Who do they want to stop? Where do they go? Why are there no windows? Is it dark, only lit by a single globe hanging from the ceiling? Or do I have it all wrong? Maybe it's bright, lively and there are red and white checkered table clothes on square tables and a feeling of happiness and contentment.
Behind green doors are worlds that are a universe apart from mine. We may never meet. I may never know what's behind the green door across the road, or any other door just like it. But we're connected. And like worker ants, we each do our part to shape our own world and in turn, each other's.
Just don't ever let me end up behind one of those green or red doors.
posted by E in Oz at 1:51 pm
these thoughts escaped my brain at 1:51 pm
3 Comments:
Wow! What was in that drink, LOL
; )
Wow, you and Robyn have been quite philosophical of late... I read two very similar posts about wondering about other "worlds". Hmmmmm..... it's interesting to peek into yours..
That door is my flat! No it isn't, I'm kidding...
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