Doc & Jean

I couldn't help but notice that no one else was noticing what I had noticed. Residents who I know have lived in this apartment complex much longer than I strolled past the big, blue "Police Box" as if it hadn't just popped from existence. I glanced around, blindly expecting the owner to come by and proclaim his property and explain why there was a random structure outside my apartment building. But no, no one came. I had never seen anything like it before; it almost looked like a telephone booth you'd see in the street, but those were usually see-through and less... vintage? Plus, this seemed unnecessarily large for something as simple as a phone booth.

I grabbed the handle, assuming it was public property, and by reading the sign plastered on the front door, I pulled to open. To my dismay, it didn't open. I jingled the handles and pulled harder a couple times, but it was no use; the doors wouldn't budge. I sighed, straightened my shirt, and left my natural curiosity to starve. You see, I'm a journalist; I literally get paid to be curious. More-or-less. Whatever.

I continued to walk down the street, dreading what waited for me four blocks away. If you think me as an individual is sad, you should see my workplace. As I walk through the double doors of the writing studio, my "home away from home", anyone with proper eyesight can see what I mean. Almost everyone I work with is over thirty-five; depressed and balding. This is where dreams and talent go to die and "trendy celebrity interviews" and "all the latest fashion fads" bury our corpses. Have you ever seen a thirty-seven year old man write about celebrity gossip and write advice columns for tween girls? It's utterly sad. You know what's even more sad? This thirty-seven year old man went to Princeton, and somehow went from CNN to... this.

It's terribly sad and every one here knows it. The only person who actually enjoys working here is Valerie Matthews, a far-too-preppy-former-cheerleader who's mental age never developed past the age of fourteen. Which, of course, makes her perfect for this job.

"Hey, Jean! Ready for today's work?" She asked across the room, her blonde curls bouncing against her slim shoulders. I've never once seen her without a smile, which can get extremely irritating after a while.

"Oh, Val," I laughed, "you know I'm not."

"Cheer up, Jean, or I might take your job!"

"Valerie," I said, staring right into her blue eyes, "nothing would make me happier."

She laughed, again, called me a "big goof" and continued to sprinkle her sunshine on the rest of the employees' low morale. I sighed, sat at my personal desk, and began the day's work; writing an article about a boy band's favorite desserts.

. . .

I walked back home, emotionally drained and exhaust from incurable boredom. I finished my work early (I always finish my work early) and spent the rest of the time playing Solitaire and pulling pranks on Valerie like having her believe she's haunted or sending her on a wild goose chase for her left shoe. It's all in good fun, I promise. And it's not like Valerie is complaining; she's about as close to a friend as I can get.

I guess that's sad too, huh?

Kidding.

Nevertheless, I trudged back to my humble abode and yearned for that compassionate feeling of being sprawled on my couch and flicking through Netflix for a good movie. Ah, yes; that feeling.

As I was walking back, however, the memory of the blue Police Box flashed through my mind. I only remembered because as I climbed up the steps to the apartment's entrance, I never recalled seeing the blue structure on the way back. I stopped in my tracks, turned around, and quickly jogged in my flats to get back to the original spot. As I came in front of where I remember it being, however, it wasn't there.

"Oh, that's great," I murmured, throwing my arms in the air. I tried to recall if the thing had wheels, like a port-a-potty or something. But no, I couldn't remember anything other than it was big, it was blue, and it was a police box that you had to pull to open. I sighed, noting that even small, seemingly mundane things couldn't even shake up my dull routine. I began to walk away, crossing my arms in front of my chest and muttering profanities about how I should have stayed in New York--things happen in New York.

This would have stayed as an off-hand detail of my day, if not that the Police Public Call Box reappeared the next morning, the exact same spot. I stood there, aghast and puzzled. I looked in all directions, wondering if anyone would catch my eye and have the decency to share my confusion. To my dismay, however, no one bothered. I clicked my tongue, attempted to pull the doors again, failed, then proceeded to my day.

I figured jokingly the thing would be gone when I came back, and sure enough, it was. After a long day's work of editing celebrity dog photos onto cheap, flammable paper, I walked home and kept a vigilant eye. When I finally turned the corner toward my apartment complex' block, the blue box was gone. I scratched my head, ready to get to the bottom of this. I walked directly to the "lobby" of the apartment complex and knocked on Wilson's door, the landlord. He was a scrawny old man with wispy white hair and an abundance of freckles. He glanced at me through the glass window, sighed, and went over to open it.

"If this is about the hot water--"

"No, no," I interrupted, "I wanted to ask you whether you knew what that blue box is that's been outside the apartment every morning."

He raised a quizzical eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest; "Blue box?"

"Yeah, you know; big blue booth. Says "Police Public Call Box" on the front. Always locked. Kind of gives of a... weird vibe."

He stared at me, deadpanned, "'weird vibe'?"

"Yes, yes," I said, irritated, "a weird vibe."

"Huh," He rubbed his chin, "big blue box that gives off a 'weird vibe'... hmm... nope, can't say I've seen it." He smiled a very fake and placid grin, the one that's only warranted for annoying customers. He also shrugged his shoulder, which just facilitated his services.

I gave him a fake smile back, nodded, and told him to "fix the goddamn water, already."

. . .

This pattern of appeared and disappearing went on for approximately four days. Each day, I grew madder and madder, wondering why no one seemed to notice and no one seemed to care. I searched the internet for "blue police box", only to find exact replicas that were made in London during the 1950s. What on earth did that have to do with LA? I figured they might be making a movie, but I think I would have heard about it by now either from Wilson or the other apartment residents.

But, alas, on one Friday night, I cracked.

I decided to camp out and wait for the box to appear, meaning I'd pull and all-nighter and stare at my window for the whole time. I got everything prepared; snacks, comfortable pillow, and energy drinks to keep me awake. I sat at my desk, pushed my computer monitor aside, and kept a watchful eye on the exact spot where it always appears. I felt like a spy.

Of course, there was one factor I left out of the equation of my nightly stake-out, and that was bladder control. While I was bubbling with caffeine thanks to Redbull and Monster drinks, I was also bubbling with the need to use the bathroom. I crossed my legs, tapped my fingers, and everything else to keep water off my mind. Eventually, though, the human weakness got to me and I bolted for the bathroom.

When I came back, however, refreshed and ready to go, the blue box was there! Immediately, I grabbed my tennis shoes from the entrance, swung my front door open, and raced down the stairs in my bare feet. There was no time to lose, none whatsoever. When I finally made it down, I hopped on each leg as I tried to fit the other one through its proper shoe. I was fully equipped for this mission now. I reached the blue box quickly afterwards and prayed to Darwin that the thing was unlocked or at least... different.

I wrapped my fingers around the cool metal of the handle, braced myself, and pulled on the doors. They didn't open. I groaned and yelled in frustration, kicking the wood and all it's infamous glory. I almost had it. I almost had it! I let my back slide down it's cool exterior, until I was sitting on the sidewalk in the middle of a deserted block. People on this street weren't very active at night, considering most of them were over fifty and dying. It was approximately three in the morning, and the sky was as dark as ever. I sighed, rested my head against the wood, and fell asleep.

. . .

I woke up to the touch of something tapping my head. My eyes ached along with my butt from sleeping on cold cement. It must have been the crack of dawn, for it still seemed dark but a strong light was blinding me. I swatted away whatever was annoying my forehead, earning a small "ow" from an unknown source. Yawning, I readjusted my eyes; it was a man in a trench coat.

"Blimey, never thought I'd see the day. Sorry, but you're sleeping on private property."