Charlie stood facing the door for an eternity, expecting the next step to get easier, but it didn’t. Something welled up in his chest, just above his heart and below his neck. It wasn’t exactly pain and it wasn’t exactly love. Thanks to Dr. Thornton, he realized that it was a longing for days past. Charlie often thought that life before therapy had been easier. He didn’t have to acknowledge all of this touchy feely crap. It’s possible he didn’t even know it existed before that last session broke the vault wide open. Prior to that he could just drink, be an asshole and move on. Sweet simplicity. Now he was forced to deal with all the muck and junk that his new state of “enlightenment” provided.

The door itself was unremarkable. It was a typical wooden door seen in most New England homes built in the early twentieth century. It had that reddish-brown glaze with the cracked and almost scaly varnish. The door knob, still original, made that characteristic squeak when it was turned and popped back into position. Charlie loved these old houses. Solid, reliable and full of character, they were everything he wanted to be.

The door opened and Charlie took a half step past the threshold. Physically he made it in , but his heart clawed at the jamb, pulling him back into the hallway. Last time he was here, he was a different person in what feels like a different universe. It was before the war. Before the scars and all of the anger and resentment and bitterness. Charlie had spent the majority of his adult life wearing a uniform and made it out mostly unscathed. The war that tore him down took place in this very room between his mother, “Rainy” as she was so affectionately called, and cancer.
The room was exactly as he’d remembered it. The bed was still there. The smell of the room inflated long lost memories. Good ones. The smell of spearmint just barely touched his nose. To be exact, it was the smell of spearmint flavored Trident chewing gum. Rainy was never caught without it. Charlie wondered how that was even possible after a decade. Maybe it wasn’t real and the scent was merely a powerful memory. Either way he was grateful for it. He hadn’t been that close to his mother for a very long time. The fear melted away. His spine straightened and his previously rounded shoulders moved back to their natural position. Charlie felt good.

Bill slogged through calf deep, room temperature water. His heavy and normally very comfortable work boots were completely filled. His toe skin, now rapidly softening , would soon resemble the California Raisins. Somehow the warmth of the water managed to exacerbate the situation. Why wasn’t it cold? Where the hell is everyone? None of this made any sense. It had been three weeks since losing his job at the shop. He’d been there sixteen years and only missed two days. It was a case of viral pneumonia that had knocked him down for a long weekend a few years back. Now, sloshing around in this bullshit bath had him worried there may be a second round of sickness. Bill James answered an add in the Rolling Thunder Express for one day of work on a movie set. The applicant must be willing to get wet and possibly dirty. Lunch would be provided and the pay was a whopping $125, paid at close of business. He had done more for less. Glen, his point of contact, met him outside the hulking studio to open the door. Glen was an odd cat. Nice enough, but couldn’t look Bill in the eye and had a cold, clammy handshake, if you could even call it that. Bill was instructed to go inside and walk straight to the back until another member of the production team found him. Once the doors closed behind Bill the room went oily black. The only light radiated from far back in the studio. Much, much further back. He sloshed and slogged toward the luminescence, but it maintained its distance. Never closer, nor farther. He noticed something floating by and could barely make out the shape. It was a shirt. Small, but definitely a shirt. Maybe a kid or a smaller lady had dropped it. Maybe it was a costume. “Hello! Where the hell is everyone? What’s going on in here?” He yelled at no one in particular. He was mainly just hoping to hear a voice. Bill had always told Genie, his wife, that he trusted his gut. Now he was getting a bad report. Someone, something was inside with him and it wasn’t another extra. The temp suddenly dropped and his hackles raised. His breath fogged and the tip of his nose frosted like a winter morning. He began to get very tired, groggy and his feet suddenly felt like bricks. How long had he been walking? Minutes? Days? His thoughts were murky. Why can’t he get any closer to that light? A steady blast of cold air cut through his shirt and blew his hat off. The lights disappeared. “What is this…? What the hell is going on in here?” Bills voice quaked with fear. There was no response.

Gus!! Gus!! Come here buddy! I’ve got a treat for you! He always did this at the worst times. Never on a nice sunny day. Never when I don’t have to leave in 10 minutes. Remind me, why do we have dogs again?? That’s right…it’s because they’re hilarious and lovable and they smell funny. Like dogs should. Just a reminder, if you don’t like them…you belong on a list. Today was especially inconvenient, but I own it. He had unintentionally created a modern art masterpiece with his big greasy nose thanks to the geese just outside in the marsh. He sat panting and making that weird mumble growl dogs do while watching them through the the glass door. I was naive enough to think that I had the physical prowess to quickly open the door, carrying a tote bag full of swim gear and then close it with my foot….without letting the old boy outside. Everyone said getting a hound would be a pain in the ass. Well, he’s not a hound. Not a purebred anyway. He could just as well be part muppet for all I know. They don’t do a lot of research at the humane society. So here I am…again, walking this path, in the rain and mud, calling and hoping that the big meathead comes lumbering back sooner than later. It’s a weekly occurrence, but he’s my meathead and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I hear the clobbing of muddy paws getting closer and closer. The cordgrass to my right suddenly parts to reveal the man (dog) of the hour. Please God…don’t let him be covered in some heinous puree of dead fish and mud. Did I mention that one of his favorite past times is finding the most atrocious smelling things on earth and rolling in it? Dogs…gotta love them, right? The God’s were smiling on me today. No poo. No dead animal. He was smeared with mud and one of those big goofy dog grins, that’s it. Small potatoes when you consider the possibility of all the nauseating things one could find along the seashore if they were to look long enough. He did come back, he’s not as gross I feared…so a milk-bone it is. I know, I’m a big softy. Now back to the house to pack up car and head back home. Back to reality.

I’m uncertain how the red phone booths of England became a symbol of that entire country, but it absolutely has. A quick scan of any jet setters Instagram account will confirm. I think anytime most people see one of these iconic, but obsolete booths, their noggin is immediately filled with images of beefeaters, the royal family and odd looking taxis. I may be the exception. When I see one of these I’m immediately transported back to Detroit, Maine in the early 1990s. I’m in the living room with my family and two dogs. The room is dimly lit and Alex, our faithful golden retriever is curled up beside me. Mom and dad are sitting on the couch. Our wood paneled, floor model Sony tv is transporting us across the pond to the strange but entertaining world of Dr. Who. Full disclosure…I think Dad was the only one who enjoyed the show. The rest of us were just along for the ride. Little did I know, this would probably be the best time of my life. Maybe all of ours. Within a decade my mother would be deceased after a gut wrenching battle with Multiple Sclerosis and the family would be left in shambles. No more evenings around the boob tube. No more golden retrievers. No more family. I have fond memories whenever I see one of these icons of the U.K.. Not because of the shows plot, but because if reminds me of a time when the plot of my life was different. A happier and wholesome time. In a way Dr. Who became a reality. The characters of the show would get into the booth and be transported to a different dimensions. My trips through time and space don’t involve a world of adventure or quirky characters. I take a direct route back to a time when life was a little easier. Laughing was the normal. I was content with bowl of popcorn, a glass of kool aid and the company of a soon to be dispersed family. Maybe Dr. Who wasn’t a fantasy? After all, we use the same mode of transportation.

I painstakingly laid each step in its place, desperate to move silently, but to no avail. The air was moist and heavy and I could feel the condensation in my nostrils and upper lip each time my lungs refilled. Anyone that has spent time in the wilderness knows that the forest is full of sound, but not tonight. A incorporeal weight seemed to be smothering all of the surrounding the life. I could feel it and so could the forest. The ink of the night was being gently, but forcefully pushed further and further back, yet no objects were being illuminated. It was as though the light radiating from just north of me was swallowing the night, over taking it. Not as the day dismisses each night with a sunrise, but as evil does to innocence when all faith is lost.

EJ stared blankly at his notebook. The thin blue lines seemed to be separated by endless gulfs of emptiness. The paper itself anxiously waited for him to demonstrate the ability to develop a storyline. The teacher waited. They all did. Today was different, rather than inspire, the blank pages seemed to incapacitate. EJ knew that if he did come up with something fast, it would solidify what everyone had been saying. He didn’t belong here.