Airlock

I am sitting at my breakfast table. In front of me is a bowl of soggy cereal that has been sitting untouched since I put it there twenty minutes ago. I rise from the table and walk to my bathroom, feeling the cold metal doorknob in my hand. Better start heating this place before the winter really sets in. I pull the door open and step in. As I flick on the switch to my right, a white light fills the small bathroom, illuminating the toilet and linoleum floors. Next to the bright white light, a smaller blue light blinks gently. I turn to my mirror,  lift up the razor, and begin to shave. It is not long before I look as I did yesterday morning.  

When I was a child, I was told I could be anything I wanted. I dreamed of being a scientist or astronaut. I would never have seen myself as an accountant in a law firm. Now, as I tighten my collar and tie my shoes, I think about being an astronaut. Not through the eyes of a child, but through the eyes of a man. 

I walk through the hall to my front door. I open it to the crisp morning air blowing through my hair. Behind the house, once my parents’ house, are the barest hints of the sun beginning to rise. I close the door behind me and lock it with the small key that I have had since I was 10.

My mother had given me the key in an attempt to teach me responsibility. I had been prone to leaving the door wide open as I ran through the neighborhood with my friends. Jonathan, Peter, and the other one. I would leave that door open, and when I came for dinner my mother would be standing in the hall, hair done up to keep her cool in the summer months. She would stand in that hall and tell me that I knew better than to leave the door open because it would let the AC out. She gave me the key when I turned ten and told me that I needed to lock the door behind me every time I left the house. I closed the door after that, still do.

I walk down the porch steps, my bag dangling from my hand, trailing on the concrete path to my car. I unlock the car door with another key, this one purchased by me, and open it. I toss my bag across to the passenger seat as I get in. I press the button to start the car, no need to turn a key nowadays, convenience is key. As I back out of my driveway, I think of an astronaut in an airlock like the ones I have seen in movies.

The astronaut stands in the airlock, in front of large, sterile doors, waiting for them to open so he can float out into space. What must he feel as he stands there? Nervousness? Excitement? Right now I can see him, standing in the airlock. The helmet he wears masks his face, but nevertheless, I can see a smile through it. 

I turn out of my driveway and drive down the road, knowing what comes next. I pass a red car, a black car, a grey car, they all look the same now.

I remember when I was much younger than I am now, probably around 7 years old, and seeing my neighbor’s garage door open to reveal a shining red convertible. I was hypnotized by the glossy red paint. My neighbor never took that car out; he kept it in his garage, safe and protected from the outside. 

I listen as the morning radio show hosts gently talk to each other about this and that. I change the channel, hoping for a shift, but it’s the same across the board. 

I park my car at a garage down the street from my office building. As I walk down the street, bag on my back, head dipped slightly, something catches my eye. It’s a woman; she seems to be around the same age as me, though she walks with the air of someone far older. She wears a knit sweater over an orange dress that touches the concrete sidewalk we are standing on. We make eye contact and stop. For a moment we just stand there, the world frozen around us, the sun’s gentle morning glow kissing my cheek, the cold air of a winter yet to come nipping my ear.

She smiles at me. “It’s a bit cold today,” she says. 

“Yes it is,” I reply, and I let myself smile, giddy at the unexpected encounter.

I used to see my friends every day, during class or when we rode our bikes after school. I’m lucky if I see them once a month now.

“Would you like to get coffee?” the woman asks me.

“Yes, I would.” I respond, forgetting about getting to work on time.

She shows me a shop I have never been to before. The shop is small and a bell twinkles as I push open the door, singing out our arrival. The woman and I order coffee and take a seat by the window. The sun is in the sky now, shining in through the window and onto her face. For a minute I sit there, trying to think of something to say. 

“What is your name?” she begins, and I breathe. I tell her, then return the question. 

“It's Jo. Weird, I know, but my dad refused to name me ‘Louisa’,” She laughs a little, and I know this is not the first time that she has said this.

We sit for a moment, but this silence is different.

“What do you do for a living?” I ask her.

“I’m a bartender down at Mike’s, but I want to be a singer.” She looks down at the coffee she is holding on both hands, its steam rising into her face. “It’s hard, ya know, to get started, but I’ve written a few songs and I sing at open mics pretty often. I should probably stop sitting around and try to get an agent or something. I might not be able to, but like they say, you’ve got to chase your dreams.” She takes a sip of her coffee. I take a sip of mine. “Geez, I feel like I’m talking so much,” She laughs again, “What do you do?”

“I’m an accountant.” 

“Really, that’s it?” She leans back in her chair.

“That’s it.”

Outside the window, people walk to and fro, focused on their lives and routines, but they are outside, and I am inside.

“Can I ask you something?” We lock eyes as she says this.

“Go ahead.” 

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

l want to laugh at the question, it seems ridiculous, an adult woman asking an adult man what he wants to be when he grows up, but Jo is dead serious. I want to drive a race car and float through space with only a tether holding me back. I want to leave the doors unlocked and ride my bike around my neighborhood. “Not an accountant,” I say