Friday, November 23, 2007
A Turkey Tale
There are times when, right before you’re about to do something really dumb, you see the whole mistake unfold in a flash before your mind’s eye, and yet you go ahead and do it anyway.
Last Saturday, I spent the morning cleaning and child-proofing our house in preparation for a pot-luck party for friends and colleagues. Our retro bathroom has a handsome mortice door lock, with an old-fashioned skeleton key. Because of the kids, I briefly thought about removing the key, but got side-tracked and forgot. That was my first warning.
By the middle of the evening, the party was in full swing. Our house was packed with adults intent on conversation over heaping plates of food, and two tousle-haired little boys were roaring round the house, supervised by the sensible, teen-aged daughters of other friends.
Absorbed in a conversation about the challenge of translating indigenous Tahitian prose from French, I heard a door slam and the frantic rattling of a doorknob. I broke away from the erudite visiting scholar to check on the boys. Another thump and the little boys cannonaded out of the bathroom in fits of giggles. Reassured, I returned to my guest.
Five minutes later, there’s a banshee wail from the bathroom. Alas, the two sensible teens have somehow locked themselves in. Adults shout advice and encouragement through the keyhole, to no avail. The only useful idea comes from our literary scholar, who asks if they have the wrong key. This makes no sense to me, for they have the key that locked the door. But, indeed, another key turns up, is slipped under the door, and the teens escape, blushing at their misadventure.
The following afternoon, I had a fit of curiosity. “How on earth did those silly girls get stuck?” I knew I should have stopped right there, but I just ploughed ahead. “Let’s see, we enter the bathroom, close the door, turn the key clockwise, and yes, check, yes, the door’s locked. Now, we turn the key to the left and…” The latch does not budge. I jiggle the key, “Hmm, that’s odd. The key locks the door, but it doesn’t seem to want to turn the other way.” Pause, “Try again, and.. ah, no luck.”
I sit on the cold floor and contemplate my options. It’s not uncomfortable in the bathroom: hot and cold running water, all mod cons, after all. Not much to eat, but maybe I could take a marathon bubble bath? I visualize the pile of my student papers waiting, reproachfully, on the other side of the door, and pull the plug on that idea.
Having recently had the bathroom repainted, I’m loath to put my shoulder to the door and bust my way out. Besides which, the door is sturdier than me. I cast around for inspiration and find among the talc and toothpaste – Eureka!- an old nail file. I summon up my inner Girl Scout and set to.
Within five minutes, I have broken the handle off the nail file, and the floor is littered with brass screws. I unscrewed the fingerplate and door-knob with the other end of the file, and dismantled the lower hinge of the door. I have accomplished precisely nothing. The latch is still locked firmly in the doorjamb, but now I can’t even turn the door handle.
I crumple on the toilet seat: I can’t believe how dopey I have been. Why hadn’t I brought both keys with me to try in the first place? What adult arrogance told me, despite the evidence, that just the girls’ lack of dexterity was to blame? Gazing around the lavender walls of my cell, I raise despairing eyes to the window. Maybe if I balance on the bath-tub, I can prize out the glass slats of the jalousie window and climb out?
Forty minutes later, I’d leapt to freedom in the muddy Hosta bed below, retrieved a set of house-keys, and let myself in by the backdoor. Once inside, I approached the bathroom cockily – “Soon have that sucker open now.” But the new key won’t go in: I’d left the wrong key locked on the inside. There’s nothing for it but to fetch a ladder and climb back through the bathroom window, take the first key out, climb out the window and down the ladder again, go to the backdoor, let myself in and then, finally, open the door with its rightful key from the outside.
Then it dawns on me: Why didn’t I take both keys up the ladder?
Pulling on a wishbone and hoping for more commonsense in future, for Michiana Chronicles, this is Louise Collins.