Living in New York, I've had the pleasure of experiencing tons of "New York moments," like the time John and I got caught in a rainstorm and I lost my shoe in the middle of Broadway and had to run back for it with one bare foot, or the time I happened upon the Rockefeller Center Tree being put up, but I'm coming to learn there are a few other moments that make you a "New Yorker," like the first time you cry in public (haven't done it, yet), or when someone vomits on your shoes on a crowded subway (last year), or when you get locked out (check). Not once but twice I've remembered my keys just as the door slammed shut and had to wake my poor musician neighbor to let me in, but this time was the worst. I had my keys, the lock was just stuck. It's been sticking for a while now, but I guess being gone a month with no one to turn it coupled with the lovely August humidity means a fond welcome home for me.
The first call I made was from the girl I sublet from. Her suggestion was to find a neighbor that was at home, scale their fence, then climb the rickety fire escape that I'm not sure I'd use even if the building was on fire, and try to break in the kitchen window. I chose not to go this route...Humphrey didn't seem to mind the extra stoop time while I figured out my next move.
Next call was to the neighborhood handyman. After scolding me for not getting the locked fixed sooner, he tried the key, then he tried a crow bar, then he used a saw, his shoulder and the crowbar...
Here's what I was left with....but at least I got in the apartment! Almost $200 later, I have a new lock, and a patched up door. But I'm in the apartment! Welcome home, me!
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