Locked out

Argh. If I believed in a supernatural force that doled out justice in the universe I’d say that said force was attempting to communicate with me.

Went to a friend’s house for a BBQ last night, and on my way home realized that I had left my keys on my coffee table in the living room. Yes, it’s true, the mental image that came to me once I discovered that the keys were not in their accustomed place in my right front pocket was undeniably clear. I could see them sitting there amidst all the unsorted junk mail, and sure enough, hours and hours later when I finally broke into my own apartment, there they sat just as I had envisioned them.

Yes, I had to break into my own apartment. But that was the option of last resort. First I called my landlord, but his wife refused to wake him up for such a trivial reason, since it was nine-freakin’-thirty in the evening, far too late for such shenanigans. Mrs. Landlord told me that if I called tomorrow he could come over and help, “and he gets up real early.” Considering I had to be at work at 7 AM, just how early would Mr. Landlord be up? “Oh, no, not that early,” she said. OK, on to Plan B.

Second I called my sister, because I remember giving her a spare key to my apartment. Unfortunately, my sister reminded me that I have moved in the last couple of months, and hadn’t updated the key. “You could get into your old apartment,” she laughed and said. I don’t think the current resident of said apartment would appreciate that, though.

Third, I went to my office downtown, and looked on my desk. Maybe, I thought, I had somehow left the key there… no. So I pulled out the Yellow Pages and looked up a couple of locksmiths. First number I called I reached a woman with an accent strongly reminiscent of the Far East, who shrilly advised me that “he forgot to forward phone. Here his cell phone.” But the number she gave me was another lady who advised me that there were no locksmiths, ever, at that number.

The second number I called was a young-ish sounding man who, when I first asked him if he could get me back into my apartment, asked if I had called my landlord. After I explained that my landlord apparently needed his beauty sleep, the man shrewdly advised me that getting back into my own apartment “…is gonna cost you a hundred-dollar bill.” Thanks but no thanks, pal. I hung up on him. I’d sleep in my office overnight before paying that much just because a) I made a stupid mistake and b) my landlord is a lazy bastard.

So, I headed home. Once I got there, I tried that old trick of trying to jimmy the door with a credit card (I used my Portland Art Museum admission card, figuring it was the most disposable card I had). Turns out that trick doesn’t work. At least I couldn’t make it work.

I was both upset and pleased, however, at how easily I was finally able to break into my apartment. I’ll have to do something about that.

And, as I said above, sitting there on my coffee table, in my living room, nestled among the unsorted junk mail of several weeks, were my house keys. Joy.