LOCKBLOCKED
A story from the mid-2000s when I lived in New York City
One in the morning is not the time you want to realize you’ve locked yourself out of your apartment. So I called a 24-hour locksmith — whose stickers I see plastered on every payphone — and apparently the “24 hours” refers to how long they take to show up. I asked the guy when he’d get there, and I learned that “When I get there” is an actual acceptable time to do business. Especially when the customer has got literally nowhere else to go or nothing else better to do.
So it’s two in the morning, and I’m sitting outside my apartment door, when a guy walks by and says, “Hey buddy, what’s wrong?” He seems friendly enough, so I reply, “I got locked out of my apartment.”
He gives my apartment door the once-over and says, “Oh, that thing? I can get you in.” And before I can say, “Please don’t show me how good you are at breaking into my apartment,” he’s done something to the lock and the door is open.
And before I can say, “Who was that masked man?” he’s ridden off into the sunset, and I’m thanking him while making a mental note to buy a big wooden bar to go across my door.
So, now it’s four in the morning: I’m woken up by a doorbell ringing over and over again. It’s the locksmith — whom I had apparently forgotten to call before I went to sleep (pantomime “glug glug glug” motion here). I tell him that a kind man has already broken into my apartment, and then the locksmith tells me he wants fifty bucks for showing up.
I tell him that if he wants to get paid for showing up three hours late and doing nothing, he should register with the temp agency I use. That’s when he introduced me to his crowbar — and to the idea that someone whose job is to break into people’s houses at three in the morning is not necessarily someone you want to owe money to.
Finally, it’s nine in the morning: I’m woken up by more repeated ringing of my doorbell. It’s the police. There’d been a burglary in my building the night before, and since I’m generally the most suspicious person in my building — single guy, keeps odd hours, fast asleep at nine in the morning on a weekday — they asked, “Excuse me sir, we’ve been told you come in late at night. Did you see anyone coming in or out as you were getting home the night before?”
And after a moment, I gave them the description — of the locksmith. Because screw him. At least the burglar was actually there when I needed him.
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