On this particular day, as I was responding to a municipal summons to appear in the magistrate's court of a town I never expected myself to be in — a summons for an alleged minor violation of health and hygiene codes (for which I maintained my innocence) — I entered the main hall of the beaux arts courthouse, slightly out of breath from running up the long flight of steps, and passed the laconic receptionist as I approached a wooden bench opposite a large painting of what I was to learn was the town's five founding fathers.
"Don't sit there," mumbled the receptionist. He seemed rather disinterested in whether or not I sat on that bench, as if his words were merely an announcement of fact and not an actual command. I ignored the order and seated myself, gripping my valise with five forged letters attesting to my character. I was relying on these letters to aid in my case and to influence the eventual decision of the magistrate. Glancing up at the painting, I was amused that four of the founders were looking at the fifth, while he was in turn intensely checking his pocket watch at the end of a long fob. Which reminded me that I was due to appear within minutes in the magistrate's courtroom. Still, I was bothered by what I thought was the message this painting was meant to convey.
"I have an appointment," I said. The words came out softly, echoing off the marble walls for a moment in the still air before disappearing. I fumbled through my pockets to produce the summons, but before I found the crumpled yellow paper the receptionist pointed to the far end of the hall.
"There," mumbled the laconic receptionist as he turned and walked away, through the large arched entrance through which I had recently passed. His footsteps resonated softly, like the ticking of a clock — they were slow and deliberate, as if he were making a point of leaving. A point meant for my benefit.
"There" was a series of five open doors. They were identical in their blandness. Above each door was posted a number — one through five, although the number three had been dislodged and was on the floor resting against a column. Nothing indicated which door led to where, leaving me in an anxious state of confusion. I assumed that one of these doors would lead to the courtroom. I had to make a decision, and quickly, for the appointed time for my hearing was approaching and I was already feeling disconnected from my surroundings.
How does one make such a decision — to choose from several options with little information to consider? To realize that whatever path one takes, the others will be forever unknowable. I could choose, say, door number three — the one whose sign had been dislodged — but what outcomes, good or bad, better or worse, would have befallen me if I had chosen one of the others? I would never know.
The fifth founding father was still gazing at his pocket watch, a bleak reminder that the time had come for me to choose a door. The other four were beckoning me to choose the correct door, to make a decision that would affect the day's outcome. There were five doors, five founding fathers. I took in a deep breath...
...and tentatively walked through door number three, already regretting that I did not choose one of the others.