Foot in the Door

Automatic sliding doors do not have a mind of their own. Even if they appear to. Gerard learned this first-hand while waiting to cross one. He stood there mesmerized, just watching it go at itself. It would open a tad, then close, open a tad, then close, open a tad, then close. It just kept bashing its would-be-skull over and over.

It’s throwing a temper tantrum like a kid repeatedly hitting his or her arm on the dinner table saying “no no no” because he wants to scare his parents into giving him what he wants.

Gerard crosses once the door settles down. He walks into Best Buy and marvels at the antiques. CD’s, DVD’s, cordless landline phones. A slightly younger but bored employee in a blue polo shirt clicking his gum and slowly clapping his arms limps over. He’s got an uneven gait. He says something along the lines of needsome-elp.

Gerard points out the broken door. He stares at the ground and points out Gerard’s missing shoe.

The employee points to the door to explain both.

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