sometime around when I was eighteen, already a father at seventeen with a mother who was sixteen, I had a kind of vision of the world that lay waiting for me just ahead that I can still see to this day. there was a long corridor stretching into the fading distance that contained a row of doors, all the doors leading off it on the same, the left, side. on each door there was lettered a title. I knew I was looking for one that could be for me, one that I could open to enter into an interesting future. what I didn't want to do was follow my dad, a decent guy by any metric, through the door labeled 'business'. I couldn't imagine caring about the things he cared about — which dish soap was selling the best, or toothpaste or laundry detergent, it all seemed so silly — but I thought a door labeled literature, or art, or music or theater or film, or even science, might be more like it.
the first one I came to said Art. I opened it and cautiously stepped into the short hallway it opened onto. at the other end was an open passage. I walked the few steps forward until I could see into the space beyond. the hallway opened onto a great vaulted room high and long, and in there on the floor, giant letters extending far along to my right spelled out B-U-S-I-N-E-S-S. so. I thought some moments before turning around and walking back the way I had come, carefully shutting the door labelled Art behind me as I reentered the original corridor.
in succession I opened the doors on the left ahead of me — Literature, Music, Theater, Film, Science. They all opened onto the Great Hall of Business.
I was at a loss. Then I had some serious thinking to do.
in a way, I am still doing it.
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