Door Number Three

He stood there for a moment, unable to believe where he was. "You're kidding, right?" he said as he turned to his host.

"No, sir. You must choose: Door number one, door number two, or door number three."

"Who are you supposed to be, Monty freakin' Hall?"

His host smiled, but did not reply. Turning back towards the doors he confirmed that there were indeed three: One blue, one red, and one green. Aside from the door in which he had entered, far at the other end of the expansive warehouse, there was no sign of any other ingress or egress besides the three doors in front of which he now stood. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and wondered how he had gotten himself into this predicament in the first place. Sadly, he knew exactly how he'd gotten there. Just an hour earlier he had arrived at the offices of USS, United Shipping Services, for the first job interview he'd earned in the last four months.

Previously, he had been among those in charge of running one of the largest US Post Office warehouses in the northeast. With the advent of email, scanning, and cloud computing, people simply weren't using the Post Office anymore. A string of layoffs nationwide left Tim Holiday unemployed, and depressed. Tim flooded the market with resumes with little success and was about to accept his best friend Peter's offer to work with him at his father's used car dealership. It wasn't ideal by any means, but it would hopefully pay the rent. Hopefully. He was about to finally accept when he got the call from USS. The next day he was sitting in the warehouse office, wearing his best suit and tie, cleanly shaven, and anxious.

By and large Tim felt that the interview went well, but the gentlemen with whom he interviewed made him nervous. The man was tall and slender, and never introduced himself as anything other than the "warehouse manager." What left Tim the unsettled was the man's hands. They were most definitely not the hands of a warehouse manager. If he had to guess, Tim would have sworn that the man had recently had a manicure, and likely had them regularly. His fingernails had a perfect sheen to them, and his cuticles were trimmed neatly. There was no sign of the dirt that typically accompanied warehouse work. The man's dress similarly seemed ill-fitted to what one would otherwise consider "blue-collar" work. His Armani suit was custom-tailored, shirt neatly pressed, and shoes polished to a shine. It was almost as if the man had stepped out of his Jaguar convertible and wandered in. In fact, he seemed so out of place that Tim began looking around for hidden cameras, sure he was an unwitting participant in one of those reality TV shows.

"Well, I think we may very well have a place for you here, Mr. Holiday! Would you like to see the warehouse?" The man asked cheerfully, interrupting Tim's suspicious train of thought.

"Um, sure, that would be great."

"Wonderful! Follow me." The man led Tim out of the office and down a narrow hall to a set of double, steel doors. He pressed the handle and waited until Tim was close before swinging the door inward and open. Tim stepped through and immediately stopped in his tracks. The warehouse was completely empty. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, before he heard the door latch behind him. When he turned, the man was standing beside him, still smiling. There was no handle on the door that Tim could see.

"What the hell is this? Who are you?"

"Mr. Holiday, walk with me," the man instructed as he began the trek across the cavernous warehouse. Tim shook his head in disbelief and followed, hoping to find some answers. When they reached the far wall, they stood before the three doors.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what is going on here."

"Mr. Holiday, you came to USS looking for a fresh start, no?"

"I came looking for a job."

"Ah, but it is not employment you truly desire, now is it?" Tim pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. No one desires to work. Tim just wanted to be happy. Not rich, but happy.

"No," he replied.

"No, indeed. Here we specialize in fulfilling desires. What you desire, Mr. Holiday, lies beyond one of these doors."

"What's the catch?"

"Ah! Clever boy. The catch is that what you desire lies beyond only one of these doors."

"Which one?"

"That, my boy, is up to you. You must search within yourself to determine through which door you will pass. If you are true to your heart, you will choose correctly. If you do not," the man said, dropping his sentence in an ominous pause.

"If I don't, then what?" "If you don't, you will forever wish you had." The man turned and began walking back toward the door from where they had entered the warehouse. Tim was speechless. Just before the man reached the doors, they swung open, allowing him to pass. With a click of the latch he was gone, and Tim Holiday stood alone in the massive, empty warehouse. If he wanted to leave, his exit was through one of three doors.

"Ok, so, what do I desire?" Tim asked himself. Many thoughts raced through his mind. Sports cars. A huge house with a pool. Electronics. "No, those are all material things," he reminded himself out of fear that choosing something so banal would certainly be the wrong choice. "What then?" Tim struggled with the thought, and lost all sense of time in the process. He had no idea how long he had been there, nor had any recollection of sitting down on the cold concrete while he contemplated. With extraordinary effort, he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and tried to clear his mind. He had nearly hypnotized himself to sleep when his eyes shot open and a wide smile grew across his face.

Tim Holiday rose to his feet and confidently strode towards the doors. Glancing from one, to another, and to the last, he had made his choice. Reaching forward, Tim turned the handle of the green door and pulled it open. Inside there was nothing but darkness. With a gulp in his throat, Tim stepped forward through the doorway. When he did, the door slammed shut behind him and he was immersed in darkness. Full of fear, he shut his eyes tightly as if that would someone block out the chilling darkness. What happened next was nothing that Tim had expected. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face and see its glow through his translucent eyelids. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the garish light of day, but when they did, Tim was astounded. He was standing on the deck of a small hut overlooking the clearest, bluest ocean water he'd ever seen. The sand leading from it was as white as snow.

"Where am I?" he asked aloud.

"You don't know?" a voice said behind him, startling him. Tim spun around to see that the hut was actually a beachside bar, and the voice had come from the bartender.

"No."

"You should. This is your heart's desire."

"I, I don't understand." The bartender let out a cackling laugh and returned to his work wiping out glasses. When he moved away, Tim saw her and lost his breath. "It can't be," he gasped. She rose from her seat and approached a bewildered Tim Holiday. She wore no shoes, and the tangerine summer dress she wore contrasted against her pale skin. Her eyes glowed a radiant blue. A piercingly radiant blue.

"How is this possible?" Tim asked. By that time she had reach him, gently cradled his face in her hands, and kissed him softly on the lips.

"It's possible, Timothy, because your heart is purer than you realize. Now come." She took his hand and led Tim out onto the beach. He neither knew how nor when, but the suit he'd been wearing was gone, replaced by a white, short-sleeved line shirt and khaki shorts. The sand felt cool beneath his feet as they walked. Finally Tim stopped and shook himself from his mesmerized trance.

"Wait, stop, please." She did as requested and turned to him. Her smile was as bright as the sun. "This can't possibly be real."

"Why can't it be?" she retorted, gently caressing his cheek.

"Alexandra, you died. This can't be real."

"Does this feel false to you?" she asked before kissing him again. Her lips, her tongue, her scent all filled his senses. This couldn't possibly be happening. Tim pulled away and looked deeply into her eyes.

"Alex, I don't know what this is. Maybe I'm dead. Maybe I'm dreaming, but –" Alex didn't let him finish. Again she pulled him into a warm embrace and together they fell to the ground. The soft send seemed to envelop their bodies as passion welled within them. Again, though, Tim pushed Alex away and stood.

"Alex, just stop. This can't be happening. You're not real."

Alex stood, and the expression on her face showed neither anger nor annoyance. "Timothy, what does your heart tell you?"

Tim looked at her and tears welled in his eyes. "I don't know."

© J.J. Goodman 2013. All rights reserved.