Being locked out of one’s home is not the best way to get a Monday morning kicked off. This morning I took an abbreviated walk and discovered upon arriving home that I had no keys.
Now for the 11 months I have lived in this apartment, I have been quite paranoid about locking myself out. So much have I been concerned that I make sure my keys are in my hand or my pocket when I leave. The reason for my concern is exactly why my morning bit a big one. My landlord lives about 15 miles away and does not come running just because I am locked out. I called him about 9 a.m. and he said it would be about 11 a.m. before he could get by. I decided to call a locksmith.
That would have been relatively simple if a phone book or the Internet was handy. But, as you might recall, I was locked out of my damned apartment! I walked up the block and stopped at this insurance office. The guy was really nice and waited until I made my call before trying to sell me insurance. I thought I would ask him about purchasing some dumb-ass insurance but I thought the better of it.
One locksmith I called had his voice mail engaged and I did not want to have to wait to talk to someone about unlocking my place. Of course, I did. The locksmith that I called took forever and ever, almost an hour to call me back. By that time I had employed another locksmith who was pretty good at his word that he would be here in 20-30 minutes. This guy left his car running, zipped up the stairs, did a little magic and ta-da, it was open.
After paying the locksmith $45 for about two minutes work, I sought out my keys. And I sought and I sought and I sought some more. I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. I realized after sticking my hand in the pocket of my shorts that it had a hole. The hole didn’t really seem big enough that my keys could fall through. It’s also a bit puzzling that I didn’t feel, at least some air from motion, around the falling keys. But all I can figure is that my keys (and a pack of Rolaids) fell out of my pocket. I first drove the route I took on my walk. I didn’t see my keys. Then I retraced my steps. Well, I walked the same streets and sides of the street that I had walked earlier in the morning. Retracing steps sounds a bit like you’re walking on plaster casts of your footsteps. Whatever. The point is I didn’t see my keys.
The only spare I don’t have is for my mailbox and my landlord will bring me a copy eventually. Meanwhile, if you unearth a set of keys in the Old Town neighborhood of Beaumont, Texas, they might just be mine.