on Opening Doors
One afternoon last week, S. made some scrumptious turkey burgers for me to scarf down before heading out to my first night class of the Fall semester. I was recently accepted to, and enrolled in a Technology Management program at Georgetown University. My first class is called 'Technology & Ethics.'
Occasionally in our apartment, the sound of neighbor's doors opening and closing slides in to our kitchen, or a gust of wind rattles the window. Otherwise, it's fairly quiet. We were entirely surprised when halfway through the meal, we heard our front door open. Not just the kind of brief shake that happens if wind clatters through, but a full-on human powered door opening.
Generally our door is locked, but in the hectic few moments between coming home from work and leaving for school, I must have forgotten to secure it.
From the angle I was sitting, I was able to turn and see an arm on the handle retreating backwards, seemingly repelled by our shouting and confusion when we noticed the uninvited entry. I grabbed the stool I was sitting on and prepared to use it as a weapon, but quickly dropped it so that I could dart and catch a glimpse of whoever tried to come in.
I stepped into the hallway, not sure what I would find - and a giant stood there. At least six feet and nine inches tall, probably two hundred and fifty pounds, an athletic man looked at me apologetically and said simply “I live in the same apartment upstairs. Must have gotten off the elevator on the wrong floor.”
I thought I had seen him in the building before. But that didn’t quell my sense of intrusion. Maybe it’s the dozens of emails I’ve received since opening a new account with Georgetown U., informing me of campus burglaries. Maybe it’s the articles about police violence I’ve been reading. I was feeling edgy.
Despite the confused guy’s sincere apology, my logical mind kept clicking. I asked him his name, making sure to get it clearly so that I could check his residence with the concierge. I called down and learned, yes, he is absolutely a resident - and I noted an unconcealed sense of loyalty. The concierge seemed perturbed at having to give out any information about the man at all. Clearly his privacy was paramount.
Google didn’t agree. After a quick search, the internet proceeded to give me much more information about the guy than M. the desk man was willing to.
As it turns out, the accidental intruder shares with two other former players the NBA record for having suited up for the most teams in a single career. Over the course of 15 years, the towering guy standing confused at my front door had played for nineteen professional basketball teams, crisscrossing the country and the globe.
The timing of this peculiar event feels oddly relevant. I'm getting ready to embark on my first course in a graduate program, and quitting a job that has been my home for over two and a half years. So, my mind is aflame with reflection on just about everything. This incident naturally kindled all kinds of quirky associations.
Some of the heaviest material my 'technology & ethics' class will approach is privacy in the connected age. So, I began to wonder: Whose privacy suffered more in this incident? I ended up learning much more about my neighbor than he did about me - as far as I know, my name is still a secret to him, but I now have a list of 20 cities he's lived in, how many rebounds he averaged, where he opened a restaurant, what foods his mom used to cook for him... all this and he was the one who physically opened my door.
Aside from that meta-question, the narrative of this guy's career struck me as meaningful. This happened the day before I resigned from my second job in five years. I'm still fairly new in my career, and have room to jump around a bit - but does one ever get to a point where staying put is necessary? I was asking myself this before I even met the paradigm of team-hopping. His critics haven't been kind to his irregular resume.
Finally... What was I going to do with a kitchen stool when facing down a 250 pound NBA center? In the moment, it feels like a metaphor for all the challenges I've just set up for myself. A new job, a new school. All these new responsibilities and obstacles, and I'm just armed with a laptop, optimism... and a kitchen stool.
'It's all connected,' as they say.