The Red Door

Note: I wrote this up in the mountains, on a boring afternoon when everybody else was reading. I probably did it in about ten minutes, just writing as I thought... so it's not polished or anything, but I kind of like it that way. Just something fun.


I was born in a little green house with a red door that stands between two large pine trees in a town called The Village Green. It isn’t really a village, at least not since I’ve known it. And the only thing green about it is my house – the other houses too, actually. The trees are brown, the grass is yellow, and when it snows – as it does this time of year – that snow is brownish-gray. Our houses spring up this way and that, growing – as it were – between the pines.

It’s a funny little place, if you happen to like places like that. Few visitors ever come, and if they do, it’s only to stare at our chipped little sign, smile, and make some comment about life and its’ irony. It’s true – I sit on the curb and watch them.

My older brother, when he comes to visit, likes to play that song, “Village Green Preservation Society” upon entering town. I think he does it as a cruel joke.

I’ve lived in this house my whole life. To other tenants of town, that’s not all that long. But a whole life can feel very long to the one living it. I often feel restless here. I go sit by the sign and watch the smiling people drive by in their fancy cars that reflect the sun so brightly it hurts to look at them. I think, if I owned a fancy car like that, I’d let it get a little dirty. That way people might look at it without going blind.

I often realize I think like a hick when I think like that. Then I realize it’s not really my fault. It’s because of the paint chipping off our sign; the trees that have been sick for God-knows how long but refuse to die and make room for new ones. It’s the yellow grass that rustles in the breeze and fools me into thinking there’s someone behind me. It’s the houses, so precociously green and perky it’d make anybody sick. It’s the red door – no... No, the red door is fine. It stands alone amongst the premeditated bores.

I realize, I like that door.

A car whizzes by and I can’t see who’s inside. There’s a barrier between me and the guy in there – something beyond a reflective window. The something written on the sign I sit by – it’s a lie. I hate this village – this torn, worn old picture of a secluded Shangri-la. It’s nothing more than wood, dried grass, and old faces that repeat sounds they heard a long way back, but can’t remember what the sounds mean. We speak a different language than the guy in that car, the faces and I.

I hate this town.

One morning a man stopped to take a picture of his wife by our ‘quaint’ sign. They said how it must be cute, the old married couples seeking solitude behind such old-fashioned ideals.

They didn’t really say that – I elaborated. I know they thought it, anyway.

I told them we weren’t all old, or old-fashioned. I said our town was small, but it was home. I said they hadn’t the right to make fun, because our lives were simple, yes, but we liked it that way.

I lied. But I didn’t tell them that.

They drove away with apologies, and I’ve accepted apologies, time and time again. I don’t know why I ask for them – I dislike this town more than anybody. But after all, the Village Green is my home... for now, anyway.

Someday I’ll leave this curb. Maybe I’ll paint the trees green... and the houses some other ghastly color, like yellow, just to spite them. Then, maybe, I’ll take down the sign. I’ll move to the city and set up the sign in my room, so every time I walk by, I can laugh.

It is a funny little place, after all.