THIRTEEN PLASTIC DOORS
Blake Butler
There are thirteen plastic doors in this house and I have been through none of them. None have hinges or handles or keyholes. Only some have knobs.
Sometimes when I am careful I hear people talk through certain of the doors.
The door in the kitchen pantry is the first one that I found. I was looking for something to feed the neighbor's cat. The door was four feet high and colored like the wall. I cleared the cans and boxes and removed the shelving. I put my face against the door's. It would not open. I knocked and knocked. I got on my hands and knees to peer beneath. I couldn't see anything but light.
Other people lived in this house before me. I do not regret my time alone.
I often like to eat my dinner in the mirror and pretend I am watching someone else.
The door inside the coat closet shudders and sometimes there is scratching.
The door inside the cabinet under my guest bedroom sink has a pattern on its face.
I frequently receive calls from a woman who keeps asking to speak to the man of the house.
For weeks all of my outgoing mail came back return to sender.
I like to take pictures and hide the film.
The door under my bed is installed with a small window. Through the window I can see into another family's home. I watch them eat breakfast and clean the dishes and discuss the matters of the house. They do not know I can see them. Or if they do, they don't let on.
Once someone knocked on the door inside the dishwasher. It shook the counter and knocked a picture off the wall. The dishwasher was on heated dry cycle and I did not want to open it in fear I'd burn my hand. By the time the cycle ended, there was no knock.
The door in the floor in the sunroom changes colors with the weather.
I have heard there are men and women who fantasize of rape.
I try not to believe everything I am told but there is often too much time to think.
When I receive a call from a wrong number I try to keep them on the line as long as possible.
I took a screwdriver to the door in my attic. I broke three fingernails and scratched the paint. I went to the hardware store and bought a pickaxe. I chipped and chapped and swung. I could feel the burn in my arms for weeks. I hid the pickaxe in the closet.
I once received a photo of myself in the mail with no return address. I had no idea who took it or where or when. I was smiling in the picture. I looked well, in admiration. I stuck the photo on the fridge with magnets with my eyes facing toward the door.
One of the doors is a pet entrance I had installed though I do not own a dog or cat. I would get one but I once heard about a friend who was mauled to death by his cocker spaniel. I'll bet he never saw it coming.
I like to keep my options open.
Sometimes at night I hear certain doors open and people come into my house. I am usually already in bed or in the bathtub when this happens. Nothing is ever missing or misplaced.
I take that back: one night my silk gloves had been put on by someone with large hands. The silk was all stretched out and I could no longer wear them. I still keep them in a drawer.
I was informed at a young age I would not have children.
I don't like wearing the same outfit more than once a year.
The only door I ever opened was in the crawlspace under the den. It was unlocked and came right open. Behind the door, there was a corridor. It was well lit with fluorescent panels and the air was cool. There weren't any other doors or pictures. It went on and on and on. I walked until I had to sleep and when I woke up I went back.
The door beside my front door often confuses me when I am tired.
There are several large bumps underneath my hair.
I dreamt there was a door inside my stomach. It was gray and had a curtained window. I could feel the doorbell on my tongue.
Some nights in bed I lay with my face pressed against the door lodged in my headboard and hold my breath and listen.
Other nights I sleep.