Open This Door

The following is a piece of fiction I wrote once during a writing workshop:

The familiar orange corrugated metal looms ahead.  I almost tag the bumper of a 19-foot rental truck which is backing out at an odd angle.  The guy in the driver’s seat slams on the brakes, and I say, “That’s right.  Comin’ through,” to my closed window, knowing full well that the truck could’ve reduced my Civic to a bottle cap.  I curse as my first attempt to push myself up out of the car fails.  I use the steering wheel and the seat belt to hoist myself up and have to lean against the car door to catch my breath.  Inside, six people stand in each of two lines, waiting for their turn with one of the slack-jawed “customer service associates”.  I change lines three times before I give up and stay in the line closest to the air-conditioning duct.  When I reach the counter, “Curtis”, as his name tag reads, says, “Welcome to U-Haul.  How can I help you?” with all the warmth of a mule.

“I need to get into unit 3270,” I say, pushing my driver’s license across the counter toward him.  He glances at the ID and then looks back at me.

“This dudden look like you,” he says.

“I know.  I dyed my hair blond for summer,” I say.  He stares.  “And I’ve put on a few pounds, but it’s me.”  He blinks.  I spit out my name, date of birth, and address.

He walks away, and I think the idiot might be going to find his manager, but he yanks open a drawer and pulls out a key on a giant rectangular keyring that has my storage unit’s number on it.

“Thanks.”  I swipe the key from his hand and push through the swinging door that leads to the units.  I buzz the elevator for a good ten minutes before I surrender to the fact that this is a freight elevator and moves only when someone inside decides to make it move.

I throw myself a little pity party as I trudge up the stairs to the third floor.  I have to stop on every landing to rest.  On my floor, I pretend to search for my key, giving my lungs a chance to stop burning, for the benefit of the dude loading up a cart about ten feet away, then I snake through the units.  When I reach 3270 I press my hands against the door and stare at the locks.  Could it be any hotter in this metal hell?

All right, goddammit, I’m going to open this door.

I’m going to open this door, I’m going to pull out that Total Gym, I’m going to take it home, and I’m going to work out until I look like Christie Brinkley.  Hell, I’ll settle for looking like Chuck Norris if it means I won’t wheeze like a smoker when I climb the subway stairs.

I’m going to open this door.  I’m going to work out.

I’m going to open this door.  I’m going to sell this fucking machine on eBay.

I’m going to open this door.

I find myself standing in front of Curtis holding out the giant keyring to him.  He glances at my license as he hands it to me.  “Yeah, I see it now, but you do look a lot different,” he says, his gaze slowly working its way down my bulges. I grab the license and walk out.

I didn’t open the door.