Doors

My father would come home from work and we'd hear the door to his 1953 baby blue Chevy sedan delivery slam shut. The car looked like a hearse, it's only redeeming quality was that it wasn't black. Printed on the side, in 50's style lettering "Window Coverings, Draperies, and Installation". He'd open the garage door, sit at his desk smoking cigarettes and doing god knows what until dinner was ready.

I'd pop my head in from the dining room to the garage, being caustically attacked by smoke and stale air, to say "Dad, dinners ready!". It was a mixture between a shout and a whisper. Just loud enough to get his attention, but with a submissive quality to it. A sigh would be muttered, feet withdrawn from the desktop, plopped back onto the ground, and as the chair swiveled he'd rise and lumber into the house. Taking all three steps up into the dining room as if laden with concrete shoes.

We'd eat, and have no real conversation, then retire to the living room. The living room, where the couches, television, and the sliding glass door lived. The sliding glass door. With it's seemingly war torn wheels, maligned track, and astonishingly loud voice would serve to be the Pearl Harbor to my fathers’ anger. As if kamikaze fighters suddenly strafed the living room, the shouting would begin. The idea that a 7 year old would really know how to quietly open a door, or to have the wherewithal to purposefully open it loudly seemed to escape the retaliatory nature of my father.

Shouting would break out, and my legs would attempt to carry me as quickly as possible into my room, behind the thin wooden door, offering no real solace, but a veil of safety. If I ran quick enough I'd have a moment to hide under a table, to miss seeing the image of the door being pounded off its hinges. The sound though, of metal ripping through wood could not be missed. In his ears and mine it would reverberate, we'd both know it had gotten out of hand. He'd retreat to the living room, the television still blaring, and a knock would come on the door.

It would be my sister, to come and hold me, to assure me that it would be ok. And while sometimes the sliding glass door would cooperate, and the affairs of the night would carry on without spectacle, there was always the looming dread of enemy fighter pilots on the horizon. 

J Kloor 2014