The Lock Job.

This is a candid of last night’s Lockout Debacle. There is strong language.

I had a feeling that there was a problem when I reached for the keys and l got a roll of quarters instead. What I didn’t realize was how bad it’d get.

After a significant round of inventing expletives I called work, the last place I remembered having my keys. I attempted to walk the desk through the combination lock but — and this was a shock — she’d never used one before. A guest did it eventually, but… no keys.

I invent expletives for a bit longer before calling in the building president to get the emergency unlock service, and learn two things: 1, the price has tripled and 2, the guy is AWOL. Three other people are waiting for the unlock guy—two since two PM. As I find a live outlet to charge my phone a neighbor offers couch space—which I reluctantly take him up on, I mean it meant no cold hallway.

I realize something is up when he turns the music from classic rap to classic bedroom R&B. But he’s got another neighbor over too so he isn’t planning… Right…?

Apropos of nothing: “That can’t be your hair.” From the other neighbor who was over, an old dude.

With an offended look I yank on my ponytail hard enough to jerk my head sideways a bit.

“Okay, it’s real, my bad.”

Out of nowhere, Neighbourly Guy: “That hair though, what else is you?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m looking at your ends there and our hair, it don’t do that . You ain’t all nigga is you?”

I try to figure out how one would put “gun” in their tone of voice; edge isn’t going to cut (heh) it. “I don’t see why that has anything to do with anything but my mother was Native American and why are you close up in my head enough to notice the only thing that makes it clear?”

” I unno, jus’ something I been thinking about. Can I touch it?”

I’m going to allow my fellow readers of color the moment of horror here: WE’VE GOT THEM TOO.

I am currently far enough away from my computer that I don’t have access to my “OH HELL NO” cat gif. Just imagine it here.
“I—deh—no you may NOT. WHAT HELL.”

“Well, see, I been thinking bout it and, like, the one dude you have over sometimes don’t be around no more, like now maybe—”

You heard that sound right? The tires screeching to a halt? I’m putting the brakes on.


“No?” He sounded offended.

“I’m not interested in you like that.”

“Well see I was just thinking maybe—”


“I am not interested in you like that.”

“But if the other guy is gone now—”


At this point I’m liveblogging, texting three people, and have sent The Signal to a pair of friends.

“Tell you what. I’m going to go get a smoke, and you go think about it.”

The door closes. I mutter “Shite.”


Three minutes after getting the alert my ride out is here I steal out of the creeper’s apartment. My Vibrams are ninja quiet on the tile—for which I am thankful, as a cursory glance off the corner hall shows me he’s smoking there. I curse under my breath and press myself into the deep dip provided by the elevator door, holding my breath. The damn thing arrives too slowly for my liking, but then I am off and away, unseen.

In the ultimate cliché I jump into the car and shout “DRIVE! GO!” before ducking low until we clear the property.

The key people never called.


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