Doors

I see a lot of closed doors in my line of work. It’s hard to put a number on it, but it’d be safe to say that I see a lot more closed doors than the average person. Front doors, mostly, but there can be a surprising amount of variety. Not that I do anything special. No, I’m just your run of the mill, completely stock standard delivery man.

The exact company I work for doesn’t matter. What I deliver doesn’t really matter either. I’ve drifted around a lot in my time, delivering this and that, and all delivery companies are much and much the same. Once you’ve worked for one, you’ve worked for them all.

As you’d expect, I spend most of my time on the road, driving around in van with the logo of whatever company I happen to be working for painted on the side. Sometimes I have the radio on, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I have a long way to drive, and sometimes it’s only a short trip. Sometimes they’ll be a lot of traffic, but other times I’ll have the entire road to myself. I don’t mind this part of the job, but I see it more as a necessity than anything else.

The real job only begins when I arrive.

I usually park the van in a driveway or by the side of the road. Most of the time I leave the engine running. The last part of the journey, no matter how long the drive there was, will always be on foot. I get out, and find the correct parcel to be delivered.

This final stretch of the journey can get surprisingly complicated at times. There might be a gate I have to pass through. Or, I might be delivering to an apartment, or an office, up on the seventh floor of a building, and I might need to find an elevator or climb some stairs. But, no matter what, without exception, the journey will always come to an end in front of a closed door, marking the point where I can go no further.

They always fascinate me, these closed doors.

It seems like so little, standing against so much. But, there they stand, the final barrier protecting whatever’s on the other side from being swamped by the weight of the world. Someone has taken the time and the effort to close this door, to try and claim this space for themselves.

As a delivery man, though, I suppose that part of my job is to intrude on that private space. I always try to be as polite about it as possible. It can feel a bit rude, doing that to someone, but, we do what we have to. In a way, like the door, I’m also a connection between the world outside and whatever lies behind that closed door. Maybe that’s why I like doors so much. The difference, I guess, is that where a door’s job is to keep the world out, mine is to let the world in again.

I always prefer knocking. There’s a sense of intimacy to it that you just don’t get from using a doorbell, or heaven forbid, an intercom system. Of course, if there is a doorbell, I use it, but it just isn’t the same.

There’s always a bit of wait before anyone answers. After all, it isn’t as if people spend their time standing by their front doors, ready to respond immediately the instant someone knocks. The fastest response I’ve ever had was forty-seven seconds. That was quite the shock. Most of the time, it takes a minute or two.

Sometimes, there’s no response at all, and the door remains closed. I usually wait a few minutes, depending on company policy, before leaving a note and beginning my journey to the next closed door. It can be a little sad when this happens. If I were a negative sort of person, I would feel like the door has somehow won a victory over me. I might even grow resentful. But, I don’t mind. It isn’t the door’s fault, and I try not to let it get me down.

Now, everyone knows that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. By the same token, I suppose you probably shouldn’t judge a person by their front door, either. But, when it’s the only thing you might ever see of a person, and when you see as many closed doors as I do…

The temptation is far too strong to resist.

So, as I wait, I like to examine the door in front of me, to see if it offers any clues about the person on the other side.

Maybe this well-worn, slightly wobbly door knob, for example, points to an impulsive and outgoing person, always coming and going and on the move. Maybe this strong and commanding lock speaks of someone stern and upright, a mighty oak who always keeps their head no matter what situation they find themselves in. Maybe these slightly rusted hinges suggest a delicate soul, struggling to keep it together but still doing their best to hold firm against it all. Maybe these little scratches and dents belong to a passionate individual, battered by a long life of experience.

It’s good fun, thinking about this. It makes me feel like a detective.

Perhaps the door opens, and for a moment, I get the briefest glimpse into what was hidden behind it. A face! An individual, with a soul like mine, with a name, a history, a story to tell. Were my impressions correct? Who can say? It doesn’t seem polite to ask, and I doubt anyone would understand even if I did. Excuse me, sir, but the state of your door hinges suggests to me that you might be facing no small degree of turmoil. Might I be of assistance?

No, that wouldn’t do at all.

We never meet for very long, these people and I. Only long enough to hand over a parcel, perhaps exchange the barest minimum of civilities. Certainly not long enough for any sort of relationship to form, and certainly not long enough to get to know them, let alone to learn and really understand the intimate and important details about what makes them who they are.

And yet, as I stand waiting in front of these closed doors, I do feel as if I come to know the people behind them, in my own special way. Even if it’s something small, and insignificant. Maybe I can even learn something that they themselves don’t know. After all, when was the last time you had a good long look at your front door?

On very rare occasions, I get asked to come inside, and actually pass through that closed door. Most of the time, these invitations come from people I’ve delivered to before, with whom I’ve built a tentative connection, if not quite a relationship. Either that, or old folks, who might have a bit of trouble lugging a heavy parcel in all by themselves. I only ever stay inside for as long as it takes to place whatever I’m delivering in a safe and convenient location, and perhaps exchange a few pleasantries. One time I was asked to stay for tea, but company policy doesn’t really allow that. Besides, I don’t like staying too long anyway, out of politeness.

It seems a bit rude, to be snooping around behind closed doors.

Still, rude or not, this doesn’t change the fact that for a short time, I do get to see these private spaces. It’s something of honour, really. Knowingly or not, these people have invited me into their private lives, into that space that they keep hidden away from the world. Knowingly or not, these people have invited me to get to know them, at least a little. More than I could get know them just from looking at a closed door, anyway.

And yet…

That’s not all there is, is it? Once I pass through that door, I should be inside someone’s most personal and protected space. But here, behind closed doors, I find even more closed doors. Where do they lead, I wonder? No doubt just to other rooms, bathrooms, bedrooms, or something similar. But I can’t help but think that there are even more mysteries hidden away, ones I’ll never be able to examine. I know I’ll never pass through these closed doors. I know that I’ll never even be able to stand in front of them, and have a decent look.

It really makes you wonder. Can you ever really get to know someone, or are there only ever closed doors, all the way in?

Who knows. Certainly, I don’t. I’m just a delivery man, after all.

As I leave, I always try to sneak a peek at the back of the front door. It isn’t something you get to see all that often, the back of someone else’s door. No matter how many times I see it, it always surprises me.

Normally, the differences are only small. Perhaps one side is a bit more battered than the other. Perhaps a door which looks welcoming from the outside is actually protected by a series of formidable bolts and bars on the inside. In one extreme case, I came across a door that was opaque from the outside, but perfectly clear from the inside.

Funny, isn’t it, how different things can look.

Funny, too, how of all the closed doors in the world, the only one I know better from the inside than the outside is my own front door. That saddens me, a little. It’s my own door, after all. I should know it better than anyone. But, despite how often I see other people’s doors, despite the time I spend wondering what this tells me about them, I’ve never actually stood outside my own front door and had a good, long look. Maybe I should, some day.

Maybe my own closed door has things to tell me that I don’t know yet. Or maybe these are things I can never know. Maybe you only ever really get to see one side of anything.

But, like I said, I’m just a delivery man. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter how well I get to know a person’s door, or how well I get to know a person, for that matter. Once I my delivery is done, it’s done. Chances are I’ll never see that person, or their door, ever again. Does it matter that for a moment, my presence caused this door to open, and that for a moment I was able to peer into what’s normally locked and hidden away?

Not really.

What matters is that I find my way to the closed door standing at the end of my next journey. That’s what a delivery man does, after all. Still, even a delivery man can dream, and these are fun dreams to have, as I go about my work. It’s fun to think about what lies behind all those closed doors I come across, day after day.

And, like I said, I see a lot of closed doors. Probably a lot more than your average person. So I reckon I’m actually quite lucky. This isn’t a bad job, for someone like me.