The Carrying On of A Wayward Son

So I locked myself out of my apartment tonight — in the worst possible way.

I had spent the night at Minute Maid Park celebrating the 100th birthday of the Boy Scouts of America with a few thousand of my fellow Scouters.

At the event, I was given the opportunity to sit on the field — along with some of the council’s top donors. As part of that special experience, I was given a commemorative 100^th anniversary BSA blanket. On the way out of the stadium, though, I ended up giving my blanket to a volunteer who asked for it (even though I kind of wanted to keep it). I only mention this part of the story because I thought my kind act would have granted me some kind of karma-based reward. I was wrong.

By the time I came home, it was 10:30 and I was tired. I quickly pulled into the first parking spot I could find in the apartment’s lot. As I excited the car, my hands full with my coat, a rolled up poster and that day’s mail, I accidently bumped my fat ass into the car parked next too me.

I did not scratch the car, dent it or harm it in anyway besides, perhaps, smudging the dust that covered the car. It was the kind of accident that would have been a no foul, no harm sort of deal — if the car wasn’t currently occupied by some dude talking on his cell phone.

As I closed my door, I could hear the guy begin to curse to the person he was talking to on the phone.

“Some freakin’ idiot just him my car with his door.”

Tired, cranky and a bit in the mood for a fight, I waited for him to roll down his window and (politely) explained to him that I had not, in fact, touched his car with my door. I had only bumped against his side-view mirror with my ass.

Perhaps seeing my pent-up frustration (or just assessing me as someone not worth fighting), he dismissed me with a cautionary warning to “watch myself.”

My exhaustion outweighing any desire to pick a fight, I walked to my apartment, unlocked the door and went inside.

Realizing that the guy I had upset with my butt-bumping was still sitting inside his car and could, if he so wished, beat up my car now that I was out of sight, I raced upstairs to my apartment’s second-floor balcony and crept outside to make sure that my car was safe from any undeserving vigilantism.

I hid in the shadows of my second-floor balcony and watched as the guy eventually left his car and walked to his apartment, without harming my car.

Satisfied, I reached for the sliding door separating my balcony from the inside of my apartment. It wouldn’t budge.

In the few minutes I had been sitting outside spying on a potential vandal, the metal bar that locks my sliding door into place had slipped out of its notch — locking me outside.

In the moments between entering my apartment and stepping out into the balcony, I had emptied my pockets — leaving my keys, my work Blackberry and my iPod sitting on the kitchen counter. I was stuck outside with no way to get back in.

I did, however, have a hope. By some miracle, I had my personal cell phone in my hands.

I dialed my parent’s home number, hoping to catch them while they were still awake. I was in luck! My mom said she would drive over, bring the spare key I had left her with, unlock the front door, come upstairs and let me in from the balcony.

In the meantime, I was stuck outside in the cold — with no entertainment.

As I sat on the balcony, I thought of just how stupid I was and all the ways I could have avoided my current predicament.

One good thing came of the experience, though. While I waited for my mom to arrive, I finally spotted the neighbor who had been letting her tiny dog run free across the apartment lawn and poop on people’s porches. As I sat on the balcony, I started composing the letter I would send to the apartment complex offices in the morning.

When my mom finally arrived, I jumped up and greeted her with glee. She was my rescue! I would have preferred she didn’t see just how messy my bedroom was, but that was a small price to pay for getting inside and into the comfort of my pajamas.

She walked up to the apartment and started to unlock the door. My excitement turned to worry when I didn’t hear the familiar click and squeak of my front door opening. Instead, I heard her fumble with the keys for about 10 seconds.

“Mom?” I asked. “Are you having trouble with the keys?”

“Which way does the key turn?” she asked back. “Something’s wrong. Wait a minute — did you lock the top lock?”
Yes, I realized. I did.

My apartment, like many others, is equipped with two locks on the inside of my front door. Besides the standard, key-operated lock, there is a deadbolt that can only be unlocked from the inside. I had locked that upon entering my apartment.

Frustrated, I began to worry — trying to estimate how much it would cost to repair a broken glass door when I smashed my way back inside.

My mom tried to coax me to jump down from the second-floor balcony. While I wouldn’t be able to get into my apartment that night, I could at least go back to my parents’ house and spend the night — coming back in the morning with a locksmith.

The problem is, as much as I’d like to say I’ve grown out of it, I’m still very much afraid of heights. Unable to bring myself to climb over the edge of my balcony’s rail, let alone jump down, I started to pace — not sure of what exactly I should do.

My mom volunteered to go get a ladder. I dismissed her idea — the family’s ladder was not tall enough to reach the balcony.

She volunteered to wake up my aunt and uncle and borrow their extra-tall ladder.

Once again, I dismissed the idea — that would still leave me with having to break down the front door the next day. I told her to wait in the car where it was warm while I thought for a bit. She told me she was going to go get a ladder.

As she drove off, I started to examine the door. I tried shoving things between the door’s segments, hoping to reach the lock. I tried unscrewing the door off its base using a nail I found on the floor. I even tried shoving and pushing the door — hoping to budge the lock out of resting place. Nothing worked.

I continued to pace the balcony — still dressed in my slacks, dress shirt and tie from the evening’s events.

I saw people come home and enter their apartment — settling in for a comfortable night and perhaps a little television.

I wanted in!

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I built up some momentum and threw myself against the door — and something happened!

The door budged!

It wasn’t much but it was just enough for me to slip my finger through a small crack in between the sliding door segments and unlock the door — just as my mom drove up with a ladder.

I was able to let myself back into the apartment, walk downstairs and open the door to greet my mom.

After reassuring her that I hadn’t broken the door, I thanked her for her efforts and bid her a good night.

I may not have had good karma repaid to me tonight, but I did learn a valuable lesson — I’m never going on my balcony again.

~ by robsaucedo2500 on February 19, 2010.

Posted in Musings
Tags: embarrassing stories