—When a door is a jar.
—When is a door not ajar?
—When the door is closed.
—When is a door a jar?
—Think of a dead mouse. The corpse is tucked into a mouse hole in somebody's kitchen. The mouse hole is then barricaded with a jar full of red lentils pulled from the cupboard. The next morning, the jar of lentils is rolled away by several other living mice to reveal an empty tomb. The mouse corpse has vanished. Hallelujah: the door is—or was—a jar.
[buzz-buzz]
—Hang on, let me turn my phone off.
—…
—Have you ever clothed a door?
—I once put a pair of pants and a T-shirt on a door, yes.
—I've done that. In my case, it was a sweater and a skirt.
—We've both done it, then. I had to carve the door to get the pants to stay on right.
—Have you ever loathed a door?
—Yes, I've hated almost every door I've encountered.
—Is there such a thing as a modest door? Would you agree that doors are immodest?
—I'm not sure. A door wearing pants is no longer naked, but I'm not sure whether every door is immodest. What do you think?
—I think every door is immodest.
—What about a locked door?
—A locked door is coy.
—What about a clothed door?
—It's like Rita Rudner says.
—What does Rita Rudner say?
—She says we're all naked under our clothes. Under its clothes, the clothed door is naked.
—Ever toast a friend?
—You're asking me about the anti–drunk driving billboard, right?
—Yes. Did you ever toast a friend?
—We're talking about the billboard where it's a giant photograph of a flaming wrecked car, and the caption asks, "Ever toast a friend?" Meaning: Have you ever gotten drunk, climbed into your car, and smashed into the driver's side of your friend's car, causing his car to burst into flames and burn him to death?
—That's what I'm asking. I'm asking about the billboard we'd occasionally drive past on the outskirts of Sandusky around 1993 or '94.
—No, I've never burned a friend to death by drunkenly smashing into the driver's side of his car. I have never toasted a friend in that way.
—I didn't think you had.
—If I'd done that, you'd know about it.
—Probably.
—I have, however, lifted a glass of alcohol to honor a friend. I've done this many times.
—Everybody does that.
—Not frequently enough, in my opinion.
—Your opinion?
—Yes.
—When is a door not a door?
—A door is not a door when the door is just a piece of wall that has been painted to look like a door. A trompe l'oeil door is not a door.
—In cartoons it is. In cartoons, a door painted on a wall will sometimes work like a door.
—Right, like when someone is being chased…
—Yes, someone is being chaste, and he paints a door on a wall and then runs right through the painted door. But when the chaste person's lustful pursuer tries to run through the door, the door doesn't work anymore. The pursuer just slams, cockfirst, into the wall.
—So the pursued and the pursuer are now separated by a wall.
—Yes, and the wall enables chastity. By physically separating the characters, the wall frustrates the lustful impulses of the pursuer and the pursued.
—What else do you believe?
—I believe that facts are facts. You can disagree with a fact, but the fact will not care. Facts don't feel. Facts don't care. Facts don't live active lifestyles.
—I disagree. I believe a fact must live an active lifestyle. I believe a fact must work hard to stay in shape. Historians are the personal trainers of facts. Historians do the work of keeping facts on an active workout regimen. They sweat the facts to the oldies in order to keep the facts in shape. The facts must remain as attractive as possible for as long as possible. The facts must always work to attract new suitors.
—I see what you mean.
—Facts must be sexy. Facts will attract suitors, but the suitors will always die. That's why the facts must work very hard to stay in shape: so that they will never stop attracting new suitors. When you tell me you believe that facts are facts, I couldn't disagree more. The one thing you believe most is the one thing I disbelieve most. I cannot overstate how wrong I feel your belief is. Your belief is stupid, I think and I feel.
—You've convinced me that I'm wrong. I now believe nothing. Or not nothing. What I mean to say is, I now believe one less thing.
—That's the spirit.
—What's the spirit? When is a door not a door?
—It's a trick question. All I can say right now is that I'm really feeling my mortality.














