From Bad to Worse

I begged Tim. I pleaded. I scolded, nagged and even berated him. Nothing worked. He still continued to tromp in through the back door onto my carpet without taking his dirty, wet sneakers off. So I locked the back door.

It was Sunday and there were two guys outside power-washing the house, porches and deck. Tim, myself and our twenty-three year old nephew, George, were trying to facilitate things by moving the porch furniture off and then back on to the porch. The off part was easy. George and I had done most of it earlier that morning. We were just waiting for it to dry out enough to move the stuff back on.

Tim, on the other hand, was mucking about with the grill, the shed, the utility area and God only knows what else. He was in looking for a cleaner. Back out. In for paper towels. Back out. In for a garbage bag. Soda. Phone. Snack. In. Out. In. Out. Not to mention the fact that he kept leaving the back door open. A blatant invitation for every bug in a three mile radius to sashay in and take a stab at me! So I finally, firmly closed, then locked the back door.

Soon enough, the porch was dry and the three of us headed out the front door. Tim. Myself. George...who pulled the front door shut behind him.

Tim whirled around. "You did not just shut that door."

"Uh oh. Yeah."

The three of us looked at each other, knowing it had automatically locked.

"Tell me we can get in the back door," Tim demanded, turning on me.

"We could if you had listened to me just once and taken off your sneakers," I defended myself. George wisely backed away and looked for a nice, cozy hole to crawl into.

Deep breaths.

"Does our next door neighbor still have a key?" Tim asked hopefully.

"She did until recently when she was having work done in her house and gave it back to me so that nobody could get into our house," I answered, daring Tim with a look to point out the irony.

"How about the guy across the street?" (our neighbor and friend)

"Nope. But, hey, wasn't he with some special unit in the military?" I enquired as inspiration struck. "Maybe he knows how to pick a lock like McGyver!"

Tim threw me a withering glance.

Hey! Like this is my fault, Mr. I-can't-be-bothered-to-take-off-my-sneakers?

More deep breaths.

"What time is it?" he tried another tack. George and I both held up bare wrists. "Where are all our cell phones?" he asked, already knowing the answer. We all looked at the closed, locked door.

"We'll use the neighbor's phone and call Rose,"he decided.

"Duh. She's getting her hair done or else she'd be here locked out right alongside us." Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have pushed it.

He actually couldn't breathe any deeper at this point, so he settled for gritting his teeth.

"Fine. Then we'll call a cab, and I'll go to the salon and get the keys from her. Now, who has their wallet with them?"

Was he kidding?? We were moving patio furniture around the yard, had no watches or cell phones, but he thought we had our wallets tucked away in our sweats? Now that was reaching.

"Does Tom have a key?" (last resort since he lives a good thirty minutes away)

"Uh, maybe. He did, but I'm not sure if his key is from before or after we changed the lock."

George was now looking for a major mound of dirt to pull in on himself after he got to the bottom of his hole.

"Do you think you could possibly go next door and try calling either Rose or Tom to see if they can come and let us in?"

I was going to suggest that he do it, but I decided it would be nice if the neighbors didn't witness a murder/suicide. I dutifully trotted next door.

"Of course you can use my phone. You should give me a key in case this happens again," she said. I didn't bother to point out that I had given her a key, but she had given it back!!!"

Since it is one of the few numbers I know by heart, I dialed Rose...and got her voicemail. I tried again...and got her voicemail again. I tried Tom at home...and got his voicemail. I couldn't remember his cell, so I went out and yelled across the fence for Tim...who chose not to hear me. I yelled louder. He was still playing deaf. So I had to go down the steps, over and up the steps to get Tom's number in person.

Miracle of miracles, he actually answered.

"Honey," I began without preamble, "do you have a key to our house?"

"What?"

"Do you have a key to our house?"

"A key? What do you mean?"


I wanted to beat him to death. "This is not a hard question...yes or no. Do...you...have...a...key...to...our...house?!" I enunciated each word with excruciating clarity.

"Uh, I think so," he didn't sound too convincing. "Why do you want to know if I have a key to our house?"

"Our house?" I repeated blankly.

"Yes, our house," he confirmed.

"Not your house. our house," I was getting exasperated again.

"Annie?" finally the light dawned.

"Yes."

"Oh, I'm outside. I thought you were Beth calling to ask me if I had a key!"

"Why would...never mind. Do you or do you not have a key to my house?"

"I guess. Hey, by the way, Rose just called here complaining that you people aren't answering your house phone or cell phones."

Counting to ten, I answered, "Yes. I know. That's because all the phones are LOCKED IN THE HOUSE!!! Now, do have a key or not?"

"Oh yeah. I have a key to your house. I'll be right up (yeah, in half an hour)...How did you get locked out?"

"It's a long story..."