Interview with the Doors

Robert Wolfgramm: Knock knock.
Door: Is this a door joke?
RW: Yes, how are you?
D: I used to be a well-hung, six-panel door, but I’m a little squeaky now.
RW: After 275,789 openings and shuttings, I guess I’d be a feeling a little unhinged too. Have you got any oil? You’ve seen a fair bit of traffic.
D: Tell me about it! I’ve been knocked on more times than I can remember; slammed by angry partners; swung on by kids—and had more clothes hanging off me than a clothesline in summer.
RW: Does your family leave you open or locked these days?
D: Locked. “Can’t be too safe these days,” that’s what I hear them say. First, they paired me up with this flyscreen security door. Then they poked a hole in me so they could see who was knocking. Then they fitted a double-barrelled lock to my waist. And now they’re running wire down my spine for when they’re away.
RW: Yes, I see it’s connected to an alarm and a blue light. You don’t sound pleased.
D: Once upon a time, a knob and bar of wood across my back was all that was needed. That was sufficient to keep anyone safe. Now safety is a political issue—a community effort and a technological licence to print money. You’ve got storm doors, carbonite doors, fire-rated steel doors and bullet-proof glass doors. Security, security, security! That’s all we hear about.
RW: But times have changed; we have to get used to it.
D: And I’m perpetually awake. Wires, sensors, flashing blue lights and video cameras. We can go off any time. You get a sense of security, but I can never sleep. I’m always ON, like I’m an eternal, long-black coffee. This is what terrorism has done to us.
RW: I notice your knob’s a little worn. Must be due for a replacement?
D: No way! I was installed to fill this opening with this knob and I intend to go out with it.
RW: I’ve seen a few old doors with new brass knobs and they look pretty good.
D: No. This knob is what the carpenter gave me and I intend to be carried out with it. I suspect my hinges will rust before my knob drops off.
RW: I notice you’ve got a few bruises near your upper sill. And a patched-up panel near your lower jamb. What happened there?
D: The old man lost the plot and laid his boot into me. Nearly knocked a hole in me—but better me than her, I suppose. I’m a thick, solid model you know. We were designed to take a lot of punishment. The truth is, I’ve been punched and kicked more times than a Thai boxer. Say, how about that oil?
RW: Yes, sure, I’ll be back shortly.
[The doors at my shopping mall don’t give me a chance to knock; they slide open before I reach them.]
RW: How are you back-sliders going?
D: Well, we used to enjoy sliding smoothly backwards and forwards. But these days, what with a million shoppers a year, we’re all jerks and shudders.
RW: Your light sensors look a little dull, too.
D: Tell us about it! Just about to close and someone else walks up and throws us into a backslide spin. I should be putting in a workers comp claim for repetitive back-sliders injury—RBSI.
RW: RBSI?
[Purchasing some good oil, I return to house door, knock, and open it.]
D: Just squeeze it into my hinges, please.
RW: Tell me, why do you think Jesus spoke of Himself as the Gate and the Door? [See Matthew 7.]
D: To keep the good in and the bad out?
RW: He also refers to Himself as a doorknocker. [See Revelation 3.] Has He knocked on you at all?
D: Are you saying He’s the door and doorknocker at the same time?
RW: He says if we knock, He will open Himself up—like a door. And if He comes knocking on our door, we should let Him in. So would you let Him in if He came knocking?
D: I can’t; I’m just a door. You’ve got the knob, lock and keys, remember. The choice is yours.
Ah . . . that oil on my hinges feels so-oo good.