Rated PG for two little words. Slight angst and just a drop of smarm. After living in a house that has a severe shortage of doors, I've gotten rather introspective about them. Originally an exclusive from the SA List.
Java Head
When I moved in, there were only three doors in the loft. The front door, the back door and the bathroom door. Well, technically, there were cabinet doors, balcony doors and closet doors, but I'm not talking about convenience. I'm talking about safety and privacy.
Jim didn't need doors. The loft was his and his only. Heck, if it hadn't been for Carolyn, he probably wouldn't have had a bathroom door. Women have a thing about bathroom doors. Once he walked through the front door, the danger and intrusion of the world stayed outside. The Sentinel's sanctuary was secure and locks and latches beyond the front door were unnecessary.
When I first saw the loft, understanding hit me like a brick. Big, spacious, high, airy, cool, empty. I remembered an episode of Star Trek about Deanna Troi's empath friend who didn't have the ability to block out the emotions around him. Desperately, he sought out a place of solitude and peace. Away from everyone. Between all the nasty stuff he experiences on the job and the complications of his senses, I figure that must be what Jim feels like sometimes. The loft was his sanctuary. His territory. Where nothing could disturb him and no one else was allowed.
On the third floor and with no one else living there, the Sentinel had the freedom and privacy to move about with no restrictions or obstacles.
Jim's bedroom is an even clearer illustration of his personality. It's the only room that occupies an upper level. Not only does it have no door, but it has one less wall. The fourth 'wall' is a wooden rail. Often late at night, when I'm studying and he's gone to bed, I'll look up from the sofa and see him looking down at me. Not sure whether he was just glancing or actually watching me, I'll grin, shrug, figure 'whatever' and go back to work. From his room, he can see nearly all of the loft. My room is positioned so that he can look directly into the doorway to see half of the room. From his room, he can see out of the glass balcony doors. It's perfect. I explained the psychology of his bedroom to him once and he just snorted, but he didn't disagree with it.
The kitchen and the living room occupy the same space, so there are no walls or doors to separate them.
My bedroom was just an extra room when I first moved in. Jim, the neat freak, would never have allowed it to be a junk room, but it contained extra bits and pieces that weren't used. The day after my place blew up, Jim cleaned it up while I was in class. Not that it needed much. He moved a couple of boxes to the basement, dusted, scrounged up an extra lamp for the old desk and made the bed, for crying out loud! I was nearly speechless, which made him laugh. He said no big deal and trotted off to the kitchen to make chili.
About two days later, I came home to find a really cool curtain hanging at the doorway. Jim said it was just some old thing he'd found lying around. Like Jim Ellison had anything 'just lying around'. Very colorful and retro. It reminded me of something my mom would have picked out. Not that I told him that.
The curtain worked fine. It provided me with privacy. Heck, I've stayed in real live hippie communes before. No privacy there. Everyone's everything belonged to everyone else. I was busy and not overly modest, so the curtain was great. I didn't have anything to hide. And I figured when Jim got tired of his privacy being compromised, he'd tell me in his endearingly blunt way. No problem. Detach with love, yadda, yadda.
Then the mess with Maya Carusco and her father happened. And I needed to break down. Not a whole lot. A lot would have been easier. Spend a little quality time in the mental ward or something like that. No, just a couple of days. I just needed to mourn. Mope. Maybe even cry a little. Or a lot. But the weather turned really nasty and I couldn't escape to the park. Everytime I went to the Uni, I was bombarded with professors and students. For the first time since I was 14, I desperately needed to be alone. I wanted to slam a door and lock myself in.
I built a mental wall and forced myself to function the rest of the day after Maya told me goodbye. The next day, I made myself go to Rainier and get through a day of classes. Thank God I didn't have to be at the PD that day.
Then I went home, hoping maybe Jim had to work late and I could avoid his well-meaning small talk for a couple of hours. Damn. His truck was in the lot across the street. C'mon, Sandburg. Be a man. I walked through the front door and came face to face with doors. To my room. Beautiful, polished, oak French doors. Heavy and sturdy. With the curtain on the other side of the 30 small panes of glass. And a lock. Damn. And people say Jim Ellison can't communicate. The man doesn't need words. He's very eloquent in his actions. The past two days, I had been fighting back tears. Now the tears in my eyes had a whole other cause. Gratitude. Humbleness. And I was speechless. For real this time.
I looked up and he was standing in the kitchen stirring the stew and pretending that he wasn't watching me. I swallowed hard. Had to swallow again. Finally his eyes came up and tentatively met mine.
"Thanks, Jim."
The End