An homage, of sorts, to Samuel Becket and the brilliance which is "Waiting for Godot".
two doors set into it, identical to those that I was sure had been left miles behind me. It took several
more minutes for me to arrive in front of the two doors and when I did I felt refreshed and rested rather
than fatigued as one might have expected. I felt the accomplishment of a journey completed though, in
my head, I wondered if I had truly moved anywhere at all.
I walked through the door on the left and found myself back in the room without a ceiling, facing
the strange little man who still sat behind the empty desk.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“I’ve been there and back,” I replied.
“What did you see?” he continued.
“That there are two sides which, though identical, are different,” I replied.
“In what way?” he wanted to know.
“What does it matter how things are different,” I asked him back, “so long as they are.”
“Yes,” he replied quietly and stood and walked out from behind the desk and walked over to the
door through which I had just entered and held it open for me, “quite.”
Through the open door I could see the front room of the little roadside filling station. Without a
word or a glance backward I strode through the door and reached for the handle of the door leading
back outside. Once more the little bell trilled merrily as I pulled the door open and walked out into the
still setting sun.
The strange little man with the white t-shirt with the pack of Lucky Strikes rolled up into the
sleeve was just finishing twisting the gas cap back onto my car. As soon as I turned the key, the engine
roared to life, the gas gauge climbed too full and the roadway suddenly materialized in front of me. Up
ahead a short distance I could see the entrance ramp for the interstate. I put the car in gear and pulled
away from the pump. I wasn’t so much on my way to a new place, I realized, as I was on my way to a
new self. And, though the road ahead was a complete unknown, from where I sat, the course looked
pretty smooth.
Samuel Beckett – born on Good Friday, April 13, 1906, near Dublin, Ireland. Perhaps the most famous production of Waiting for Godot, however, took place in 1957 when a company of actors from the San Francisco Actor’s Workshop presented the play at the San Quentin penitentiary for an audience of over fourteen hundred convicts. Surprisingly, the production was a great success. The prisoners understood as well as Vladimir and Estragon that life means waiting, killing time and clinging to the hope that relief may be just around the corner. If not today, then perhaps tomorrow. ‘Waiting for Gordot’ is Beckett’s homage to his native Ireland…and the story you have written David..serves well as a homage to Samuel Beckett 
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