I Don’t Know If It’s Luck, But It’s Something

We are moving soon. We gave our notice to our landlady and she has been showing our current apartment to new potential tenants. She had two different appointments today, so we spruced the place up a bit, peeled the dirty socks off the ceiling and changed the litter box, for once. We classed it up.

I had this in the back of my mind today as I got home and let myself in. The front doorknob was locked in addition to the deadbolt. This is out of the usual routine, and it added a layer of confusion that befuddled me. Deadbolt unlocked, door not opening. Knob not turning. Key in knob. Key in dead bolt. Knob turning, door not opening. Key in deadbolt. Etc, for five minutes at my door. This is extra fun in the rain with my arms full of groceries.

Once I finally figured out how to get into my own door (ivy grad here), I threw my keys on a table, put down my pocketbook, and took off my coat. The usual next step is to get the mail. I got our mail key and went out the backdoor into our apartment building’s hallway. The backdoor, like everything else in our building, is heavy and industrial. The door slowly closed behind me and clicked shut. I paid it no mind, because I knew that once the deadbolt on the back door was open, it was unlocked. Because it’s always unlocked. Right?

I got the mail and walked back to our door. The door knob. It wouldn’t turn. The doorknob wouldn’t turn. Because my landlady showed the apartment today and she locked everything up. Back door locked.

I stood in the hallway with the mail in my hand. My apartment keys were inside the apartment, on the table where I had just thrown them. Along with car keys and phone. And my coat. I was standing in the hallway with my mail and the mail key. I *seriously* tried the mail key in our back door. It didn’t work.

Dave was at a Blazer game for the next 3 hours. And even then, if I somehow got to a phone to call him, I don’t know my own boyfriend’s phone number because I have technogizmo mushbrain and I don’t memorize anything for shit anymore. I can still recite my phone number from childhood. I do not know my own boyfriend’s number. Because it’s in my phone. Why would I ever need to memorize anything?

I was still in the hallway. I stood there and planned out my next few hours. No car keys, so I can’t get in the car. At least I was indoors, but I could hang out on our front stoop like many, many drunks often do, and wait for Dave to come home. I would just be missing cigarettes and a 40 of Budweiser.  And since my wallet was inside and I couldn’t even purchase these things if I wanted to, I could even sit on my stoop and ask for spare change.

This was going to be a fun evening! I was scheduled to meet up with friends who live about 20 blocks away. I could walk to their place and hang out with them. But I didn’t have a coat, and it was chilly and drizzling a little. And I’m kind of a wimp. I began to get used to the idea of spending a few hours in the hallway.

But as a last resort, I wanted to check, just check, that maybe I didn’t lock the front door deadbolt behind me after I came in. Highly unlikely. It’s part of the routine. Unlock door, enter, lock door behind me. Routine, like clockwork. Especially after this.

But it was worth checking, before I sat my butt down on the industrial carpet and started reading the pizza coupons in our junk mail. I went out the side door of the apartment building. It was still drizzling, but I thought for a second that it was rather mild, and perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to sit outdoors for a while. My car was sitting right outside. No way for me to get in. No way for me to go anywhere. Sad car.

I reached our apartment’s doorway and tried the door knob. Holy shit. It was fricken unlocked! I hadn’t locked the deadbolt! For crapping out loud! I let myself in and stood in my own apartment and almost couldn’t believe it. My brain had already developed the scenario of my whole evening in the hallway, sitting on the floor, butt burning, bored to tears, waiting for Dave to come home hours later. And yet, here I was, with our junk mail in hand, standing in our apartment.

And I thought, what a lucky fucking shit I am.

Lessons learned here: 1. Always check door to see if it’s locked before letting it close behind me. 2. Always carry my goddamned keys when checking the mail. 3. Learn boyfriend’s phone number.

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Categories: Freaking Out