A Funny Story
I found this funny story that Brian had written before Max was born. I vaguely remember this event, as I was several months pregnant, working full-time, trying to finish my master's classes. I had begged Brian to drive me to class (it may have been bad weather; I don't recall the details), and thus, his story. As you can see, he didn't finish it, but I can say that we did arrive safely home after class that night. It will all make sense after you read...
I am the most absent-minded man alive. I took a straw poll today to see if other people considered themselves absent minded, and almost every male I spoke to launched into a list of things he’d lost. Pens, coats, keys, glasses, folders, wedding rings, wallets. Very few women had misplaced anything significant recently. One woman with a family of half boys and half girls, insisted that absentmindedness was written into the genetic code of males. She’s a biology teacher; she would know.
I’ve bought more replacement gas caps than I can count.
I’ve left my old Volvo’s headlights on so many times, the warning buzzer has worn itself out (which only makes things worse). I’m now in the habit of leaving my door unlocked when I arrive at work so that passersby can reach in and turn off my lights if needed.
Once, I left the dome light on in my car overnight, and when it snowed over a foot that night, a hole was left in the snow on my roof—the heat from the light had melted any snow that fell there. The battery would have died had I not noticed the odd hole in the snow and remembered the light.
I’ve lost every pair of sunglasses I’ve ever owned.
I don’t buy expensive pens.
Monday of this week, I raked leaves and took off my jacket and left it in the yard. It was dark when I finished, and it wasn’t until Thursday that I remembered my now long gone jacket.
Saturday, I pulled out my wallet to use my Visa. No such luck. Had I left it in my jacket? I have no idea. I had to cancel my lost card today.
This Monday, I took my wife to class—a forty-minute drive from our house. Her graduate school is in St. Charles, Missouri—a little historic river town where everything but the Autozone and a local bar or two closes at eight. So while she was in class, I took a trip to the Zone. My Volvo is twenty-one years old, and there’s always some little treat I can pick up for her—a new belt, a light bulb, an engine. I needed a new battery this particular trip, and when I parked, I thought I might as well walk around the car and see what else I could get her. I knew she could probably use a taillight, so I left the keys in and the lights on to see which bulb was flickering.
The left rear. Got it. Turned off the lights, locked the door, got the keys. Dangit. Wrong order again.
So I was a forty-minute drive from my spare keys (not that I had a car anyway), my wife was in class, and she had the mobile phone. I decided to go on in and buy my battery, hoping that I’d have some revelatory vision along the way. Some easy way to get into my car. Nothing. No ideas, no singing angels. Until it hit me as I was paying for my Duracharge 12 volt.
“You wouldn’t happen to have one of those lock jimmy things, would you?” I ask the pleasant looking toupee-wearing guy behind the counter. After all it was an autoparts store. Where else would you get one?
“Illegal. Unless you’re a used car lot. Do we look like a used car lot?” He’s not as pleasant as I first thought. He likes to sneer at guys like me.
“ I suppose not. How about a coat hanger? You got a hanger back ‘ere sommers?” I say, putting on my laid back, down home voice that I use when I’m trying to sound like I know stuff about cars, sports or hunting.
“Nope. Just plastic ones,” He tells me. “Whaddja do, lock your keys in your car?”
I thought that was obvious by now, and I get the feeling he’s adding a silent “dumbass” on everything he says to me.
“Yep,” I say.
“Looks like you’re out of luck [dumbass].”
“I guess so. Well, see ya.”
“Come back to see us [dumbass]”
I headed out to my car carrying my battery, which I set on the hood. I spent the next ten minutes walking around my car, wondering (a) how much locksmiths cost these days, (b) how long they take to arrive on a scene, and (c) how I was going to break it to my infinitely patient wife that my absentmindedness had struck again.
About the time I was going back in to humbly ask for a locksmith’s number, a fellow customer comes out and hops in his truck—a mammoth that’s seen it’s share of work sites and hauling expeditions. He must have had two decades worth of scrap and trash in his cab, not to mention the mounds of miscellany that lay in the pickup’s bed.
I nodded and tried to look confident.
“Howdy. You don’t have a clothes hanger in there do ya?”
He pushed his grease-covered hat back and scratched his forehead.
“Nope; sorry, buddy. Wish I could help.”
As he hopped in his truck to leave, though, he pulled out a rusty old coat hanger from under his seat.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said, “I was wrong.”
He drove off, but not before straightening out the hanger and handing it to me.
“Good luck,” he said, with no hint of a sneer at all.
I tried the hanger for a while—bent it in a hook, pushed it through the rubber around the window, and stuck it down into the door frame. I really thought I’d seen people do this—but as I thought about it, I realized I was just fishing in the dark. Mostly, I was just jiggling it around in the door frame, hoping to hit something. After about ten minutes, I was able to make the outside door handle go up and down with the hanger inside the door, but then I could do that anyway. I tried the passenger side door and the back doors, just to see if I could get lucky. Nope. I thought, if I only had a manual, I could figure out where the lock mechanism is and possibly reach it with the wire.
I prayed. God, I know I’m an idiot. So I need your help. This isn’t working I really don’t want to call a locksmith. I’ve got to start saving for my son’s college, and his braces, and possibly his bail, and this is going to set me back. Besides, that guy in there thinks I’m a dumbass, and I’d really not like to have to use his phone.
So God said (sort of), Do I have to do everything? You’re at a car parts store. Hint. Hint.
Ha! So I walked back in and found the 1976-1981 Volvo Repair Manual. Right there on the shelf. All I have to do is thumb through it to the page on door locks…except that it’s shrinkwrapped.
I am the most absent-minded man alive. I took a straw poll today to see if other people considered themselves absent minded, and almost every male I spoke to launched into a list of things he’d lost. Pens, coats, keys, glasses, folders, wedding rings, wallets. Very few women had misplaced anything significant recently. One woman with a family of half boys and half girls, insisted that absentmindedness was written into the genetic code of males. She’s a biology teacher; she would know.
I’ve bought more replacement gas caps than I can count.
I’ve left my old Volvo’s headlights on so many times, the warning buzzer has worn itself out (which only makes things worse). I’m now in the habit of leaving my door unlocked when I arrive at work so that passersby can reach in and turn off my lights if needed.
Once, I left the dome light on in my car overnight, and when it snowed over a foot that night, a hole was left in the snow on my roof—the heat from the light had melted any snow that fell there. The battery would have died had I not noticed the odd hole in the snow and remembered the light.
I’ve lost every pair of sunglasses I’ve ever owned.
I don’t buy expensive pens.
Monday of this week, I raked leaves and took off my jacket and left it in the yard. It was dark when I finished, and it wasn’t until Thursday that I remembered my now long gone jacket.
Saturday, I pulled out my wallet to use my Visa. No such luck. Had I left it in my jacket? I have no idea. I had to cancel my lost card today.
This Monday, I took my wife to class—a forty-minute drive from our house. Her graduate school is in St. Charles, Missouri—a little historic river town where everything but the Autozone and a local bar or two closes at eight. So while she was in class, I took a trip to the Zone. My Volvo is twenty-one years old, and there’s always some little treat I can pick up for her—a new belt, a light bulb, an engine. I needed a new battery this particular trip, and when I parked, I thought I might as well walk around the car and see what else I could get her. I knew she could probably use a taillight, so I left the keys in and the lights on to see which bulb was flickering.
The left rear. Got it. Turned off the lights, locked the door, got the keys. Dangit. Wrong order again.
So I was a forty-minute drive from my spare keys (not that I had a car anyway), my wife was in class, and she had the mobile phone. I decided to go on in and buy my battery, hoping that I’d have some revelatory vision along the way. Some easy way to get into my car. Nothing. No ideas, no singing angels. Until it hit me as I was paying for my Duracharge 12 volt.
“You wouldn’t happen to have one of those lock jimmy things, would you?” I ask the pleasant looking toupee-wearing guy behind the counter. After all it was an autoparts store. Where else would you get one?
“Illegal. Unless you’re a used car lot. Do we look like a used car lot?” He’s not as pleasant as I first thought. He likes to sneer at guys like me.
“ I suppose not. How about a coat hanger? You got a hanger back ‘ere sommers?” I say, putting on my laid back, down home voice that I use when I’m trying to sound like I know stuff about cars, sports or hunting.
“Nope. Just plastic ones,” He tells me. “Whaddja do, lock your keys in your car?”
I thought that was obvious by now, and I get the feeling he’s adding a silent “dumbass” on everything he says to me.
“Yep,” I say.
“Looks like you’re out of luck [dumbass].”
“I guess so. Well, see ya.”
“Come back to see us [dumbass]”
I headed out to my car carrying my battery, which I set on the hood. I spent the next ten minutes walking around my car, wondering (a) how much locksmiths cost these days, (b) how long they take to arrive on a scene, and (c) how I was going to break it to my infinitely patient wife that my absentmindedness had struck again.
About the time I was going back in to humbly ask for a locksmith’s number, a fellow customer comes out and hops in his truck—a mammoth that’s seen it’s share of work sites and hauling expeditions. He must have had two decades worth of scrap and trash in his cab, not to mention the mounds of miscellany that lay in the pickup’s bed.
I nodded and tried to look confident.
“Howdy. You don’t have a clothes hanger in there do ya?”
He pushed his grease-covered hat back and scratched his forehead.
“Nope; sorry, buddy. Wish I could help.”
As he hopped in his truck to leave, though, he pulled out a rusty old coat hanger from under his seat.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said, “I was wrong.”
He drove off, but not before straightening out the hanger and handing it to me.
“Good luck,” he said, with no hint of a sneer at all.
I tried the hanger for a while—bent it in a hook, pushed it through the rubber around the window, and stuck it down into the door frame. I really thought I’d seen people do this—but as I thought about it, I realized I was just fishing in the dark. Mostly, I was just jiggling it around in the door frame, hoping to hit something. After about ten minutes, I was able to make the outside door handle go up and down with the hanger inside the door, but then I could do that anyway. I tried the passenger side door and the back doors, just to see if I could get lucky. Nope. I thought, if I only had a manual, I could figure out where the lock mechanism is and possibly reach it with the wire.
I prayed. God, I know I’m an idiot. So I need your help. This isn’t working I really don’t want to call a locksmith. I’ve got to start saving for my son’s college, and his braces, and possibly his bail, and this is going to set me back. Besides, that guy in there thinks I’m a dumbass, and I’d really not like to have to use his phone.
So God said (sort of), Do I have to do everything? You’re at a car parts store. Hint. Hint.
Ha! So I walked back in and found the 1976-1981 Volvo Repair Manual. Right there on the shelf. All I have to do is thumb through it to the page on door locks…except that it’s shrinkwrapped.
Comments
-Andy
Few days ago I locked myself out of my apartment. I think a locksmith (or any type of technician job that requires home visits) would be an excellent study in human behavior, sociology, psychology, and the like. You get to see how people live and how they react to adversity. It is important to find an honest and reliable locksmith. Some companies run a criminal background check on all employees to help ensure their people are trustworthy. If you are nervous about hiring a locksmith, ask about the background check policy when you call a company for help.