We are in the final stages of completing the renovations on our house and somehow, I volunteered to finish the tiling and flooring, myself. I should probably cut back on the HGTV. So now after months of stopping by to see, sometimes, little progress I have a very short time to complete my work. With a busy schedule of working all day, laying tile can be a tedious and tiresome task. I often stay at the house until late and then drive back to my apartment only to get up in the morning and repeat the same schedule.
This was the case last night, leaving the house at 11:15, to make the 25 minute drive home. I was envisioning the whole way that I would simply, open the door, kick off my shoes and flop down on the bed for a couple quick hours of sleep before the alarm goes off. However, this was not the case. I insert the key into the lock in one smooth motion and turn the knob. The door doesn’t open and I hear the telltale sound of the locked deadbolt. A small metal on metal thud. I never lock the deadbolt so my mind starts processing different scenarios of how the dead bolt came to be locked.
The first scenario was probably unlikely, I had just given notice to my landlord that I would be moving next month and they decided, why wait? The second was it got locked by accident, even more unlikely because of the way a deadbolt functions. My last thought was the landlord came to fix the leaking faucet and locked it by accident, definitely a possibility.
I walk back down to the truck to find the yellow key chain with the deadbolt key. It is sometimes in my truck but usually sitting on the sofa table. After looking through the truck, I can almost see the keys on the table and want to “will” them to be someplace else, like in my hand. I glance to the second story windows and think, that is out of the question as well, and I might as well call the landlord. I am confident no matter how it got locked she will come to open it, but I still feel bad about the time.
I send her a text opting not to telephone at 11:45. I tell myself I will give her five minutes to respond and if not, I will call or return to the house. Almost instantly I receive a message back, “My husband will be right down to let you in.” Yikes! I feel bad for the husband right away. Even though it is impossible to tell tone in a text without capital letters and sad faces, I could sense that he was behind the locked deadbolt, and she knew it.
The landlords husband arrives and is apologizing though sleepy eyes while fumbling with keys. “I should have tried the bottom lock first,” he mumbles, “I am sorry about this.”
“No big deal,” I say, while thinking, “not as sorry as you’re going to be when she gets ahold of you in the morning.” The fatigue is setting in and I am just glad he lives close and came quickly. I thank him politely and he apologizes again. He heads down the stairs, all the while mumbling about which lock he should have tried first.
I close the door behind me and kick off my shoes, leaving a trail of clothes to the bedroom. As I settle in to the bed and pull the comforter up around my neck I glance at the clock, well at least I will still get a couple hours before the alarm goes off.
And in the morning I am putting a deadbolt key on my ring.