Once in a Lifetime

As I jumped out of a shower on Wednesday, I heard a rattling at the front door. A key in the lock. It was too early to expect my father home from work and I hadn’t called for maintenance, so I listened to the persistent rattling in the keyhole for a few moments before, wrapped in a bathrobe and sopping wet, I cracked the door open to investigate.

The young military man behind it was at first relieved to see the door had opened, and then nonplussed to see what was on the other side. Obviously, my being home had come as a surprise. Or, rather, my being in what he thought was HIS home had come as a surprise. He glanced at the number by the door, reached for the bag he’d dropped while fighting the key, and muttered “I’m on the wrong floor.” Not one to linger makeup-free in terrycloth, I accepted his explanation readily and locked myself in again. Moments later I heard the door one floor above mine slam decisively. Welcome, neighbor.

On Thursday afternoon, I heard the tell-tale rattling again and chuckled. This time, I would spare the man’s dignity and let him figure it out for himself. By Friday, he’d learned where he lives. But by Sunday, the key that belongs to my door had a story of its own.

I was to meet a growing group of friends for breakfast Sunday morning at a North Park restaurant called The Linkery, but when the first of our party arrived there, the call went out: The Linkery has stopped serving breakfast. The plan was changed. Because I hadn’t been to this part of town before, Kathryn and Joey waited at the restaurant to meet me. From there, I would follow them onward to The Mission, where the rest of our party would be waiting. But neither Kathryn nor Joey was driving; they’d left that to their friend Lettie, who’d moved from Texas a day earlier and was no more familiar with the area than I was. To avoid disaster, Kathryn jumped into my car and decided that we would lead.

Kathryn is an easily distracted navigator. She gets lost in whatever story she’s telling and forgets that she is meant to be giving directions -- a habit which often results in urgent shouts of “turn here!” just moments before the opportunity is lost. I followed her commands, hoping Lettie wasn’t hyperventilating behind us, until we found the restaurant and the rest of our party.

As I exchanged greetings with Kathleen and Phillip, I failed to hear that the adventure was not yet over. Lettie, no doubt addled after chasing my car, had locked her keys in hers. As we waited for a table, Kathryn devised a plan which involved my driving Joey back to their apartment for a specific phone number that would help Lettie retrieve her keys.

An hour and a half later, when we were finally given a table (and a seat!), I was not eager to leave it, but I gave my order to Kathryn and followed Joey out to the parking lot nonetheless. He stopped at Lettie’s car, noticing that the passenger window was open a crack. It was not enough to be helpful, but it had caught his attention and he began calling our party inside. As he went down the list, calling everyone in the restaurant, it became evident that no one inside could hear their cell phone over the bustling noise. But as he called them one by one, he gave me time to experiment. And when someone on the other end finally answered him, all Joey could say was “Never mind. Kelly’s got it open.”

I had opened Lettie’s car with the key to my apartment.

Years ago, after my brother accused me of copying his keys when an old one on my ring started his truck, I realized that there are more things that need locking than there are locks. I’ve kept every key I’ve touched since. However, here in San Diego, I have only three: one to the car, one to the apartment, and one to the mailbox. That one of them would open Lettie’s car was amazing; the odds were astronomically against. Yet, I’d tried. And viola!

Joey and I got back to the table before our food was cold, Lettie had her keys, and my front door story had come full circle.

And you may ask yourself

How do I work this?

And you may ask yourself

Where is that large automobile?

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful house!

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful wife!

-- The Talking Heads