something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue?

OLD

It shows its years, my door. It has some rust on the edges, but Jeff says not to worry because rust won’t go anywhere in this climate. When he moved his old rusty car from Puerto Rico, where the holes would grow an inch each year from the salty air, and brought it to Bishop, they halted their outward march entirely. So I’ve got time before I need to seriously think about painting it. I don’t mind the color, anyway.

NEW

I hadn’t even known Erik for 24 hours when he offered to help me put my new door on my truck. Remarkable people here. Far from the days of feeling faceless in La Jolla, I have been here for 3 days and already I can’t go anywhere without running into someone I now know – a friendly fellow mountain biker giving me directions turns out to be Erik’s neighbor, names mentioned and stored away become faces when I randomly meet them in town. Small towns are great for curing an insidious urban feeling of insignificance. I suppose I am just as new to the people here as my door is to me.

BORROWED

Swapped, recycled… I prefer to say that it is “empowered” in its new existence, given a second life, saved from the crusher. A kid named John came into the office, shirtless and caked with dust and sweat. Half-dazed by the sweltering sun, he led me to the golf cart to give me the tour of my options. First option: a supposedly “black” door, side mirror already salvaged, no window. No, that won’t do. The next door is stacked on top of another Toyota. Skate-shoe propelled, John bounds onto the hood, over to the top of the neighboring van, and climbs to the top of the truck in question. Window: check. Locking mechanism: check. Relatively good condition: check. “I’ll take it.”

BLUE

My door and me. Fortunately mine was only temporary. The door will be blue until I paint it. Or I’ll just leave it blue. It will at least be congruous with the story I now must tell to explain the claw marks in the passenger-side headrest.