By CHRIS AUSTIN

One of my favorite things to do is watch old 1950s monster movies. They always seem to use the time-honored storytelling technique of foreshadowing. You have to sit through a whole bunch of lousy dialogue and implausible plots to get to finally see the incredibly cheesy monster.

In the last movie I watched, the beast finally emerged and turned out to have large, googly eyeballs, a greenish hue and what appeared to be a dozen hot dogs in its mouth. I gave it a seven out of 10 because it was basically how I look at any given barbeque. But it was remarkable to see how a monster with a top speed of 3 miles an hour could catch more than a few incredibly fit teenagers. I guess it’s because they always open the freakin’ door when there’s clearly a monster on the other side. Don’t they teach monster prevention classes in high school? I’m pretty sure it’s on the SAT.

Well I had my own monster experience back in the 1990s. It was about the time I was returning from the county courthouse to my newly rented office space. I had just filed divorce papers and decided to incorporate my fledgling software company, or maybe it was the other way around (either way, it was one less trip to the courthouse).

To save a few bucks, I was actually living in my office. It was old but cheap, having been a hotel in the 1920s, it was now converted into business suites. I had fallen into a routine of eating out of a mini-fridge and microwave and walking to the YMCA for a workout and shower.

Late one night I was working on yet another Powerpoint presentation describing the wonders of my software. In between slides I was imagining how years from now I would joke with my chauffeur about the humble beginnings of my company. My revery was broken this night by the sound of the downstairs door that leads to the sidewalk. Normally it was locked around 7 p.m., but now I was hearing it slowly creak open at 1 in the morning. My fingers froze to the keyboard as I heard something padding up the steps. My office was at the end of a long corridor and beads of sweat formed on my forehead as the footsteps came closer. As I stood up, the only thing between me and whatever was out there was a chintzy hollow door. But what was it? A drug-addled criminal, a brain eating zombie, my ex-wife?

Mysteriously the steps receded until I heard the door to the street softly close. I got a fitful sleep on my office couch that night, but in the morning resolved to do something. I noticed there was a large gap between the door and the floor, and having just left the field of dentistry, it occurred to me that I could slide a dental mirror under the door and, unlike the naive teenager, I would be able to see what was approaching my door. Yet a dental mirror proved to be too small, so I went to an auto parts store and purchased an engine inspection mirror, which is about 3 feet long and had a much larger mirror on the end.

Early the next morning, I heard the door to the street open, and while I was fairly certain it wasn’t a monster, I thought it would be a good idea to practice looking down the long hallway as a fellow tenant came up the stairs. I slipped the mirror under the door and was surprised to find it was much harder to see down a hallway than down someone’s mouth. The mirror was showing the ceiling, the carpet, my own door, every which way except down the hall. When I finally got it positioned correctly, I didn’t see an unsuspecting person coming up the stairs, I saw a blue tennis shoe standing about 6 inches from my mirror.

I snatched the mirror back from under the door completely mortified. What must this person have thought seeing a mirror wiggle back and forth as they walked down the hall? I tried to think of something to say aloud in my room that would explain the situation such as, “Oh, I found my keys. They were in my pocket the whole time,” or “You kids stop playing with that engine inspection mirror!”

I was struck dumb with embarrassment. I figured the only thing to do now was turn out the lights and hide in my office until the lease ran out. Yet driven out by hunger, I finally had to leave my office. While I never found out who that person was. I was always on the lookout for that blue tennis shoe. The moral of the story is that sometimes it is better to let your imagination run wild than to find out what’s on the other side of the door.

— Chris Austin is the author of two books available at www.chrisaustinbooks.com. He also works at The Beachcomber.