Larry the Locksmith
Last night was one of those "ohmigosh this is the worse night ever but sure to be comical later"-type nights. I was showering at 1 a.m. when I heard what is perhaps the most horrific sound to fall upon my ears--my fire alarm. Loud, high-pitched, constant screeching filled the apartment (and likely the neighbors', too). I scrambled to put a towel over my soapy skin as I grabbed my glasses and wiped the fog from them before beginning to look for a problem or a fire. The apartment was completely clear of smoke or other signs, so I searched for a chair. Having no dining room table and a bedroom with limited doorway access due to furniture, I tried to find a suitable chair in one of my roommate's rooms. I grabbed the first chair that I saw in Jennie's room, and in my adrenalin rush didn't even realize that it was an antique-looking pine chair with fine wood burned designs on the back and legs and a basket weave seat. I took one step up onto the chair to turn off the alarm, and part of the weaving gave. Panic ensued even more after the alarm still did not stop, even though I had removed the cover. It was electric.
I returned to Jennie's room to find another chair that I'd overlooked in my frenzy, then went back to working on the alarm. After a several minutes standing on the chair and playing with the alarm on the ceiling, the constant noise finally ceased, but the alarm continued to go off on occasion and periodically emit loud chirps. Figuring it would have to suffice until I rinsed off, I returned to the shower to finish up.
After dressing myself, I put on a pot of tea, and prepared myself mentally to trouble the neighbors at 1:30 a.m. and ask for help. I left my apartment, walked two feet to the next door--Mike's door--and knocked confidently. He's a bartender and works late nights. I figured he had just gotten home from work and would be happy to help. No answer. I tried knocking a couple more times and called his name. Still no answer. I walked the two feet back to my door to find that the knob wouldn't turn. I had locked myself out with absolutely nothing, no tools or a phone or anything that might aid at getting back into the apartment. I was wearing pajamas and bedroom shoes.
Meanwhile, the fire alarm was still chirping, and I could hear the tea kettle whistling. The stove was on; I had to get back in there. Otherwise, I'd burn the whole building down. I knocked on Mike's door more and called for him with still no answer. After finally working up some courage, I went to knock on the other neighbor's door, people I don't know, in hopes that they'd answer and be willing to help. No answer there either. I was in no condition to walk any distance on a Maine winter night in my pajamas, figured it was 1 a.m. and I probably wouldn't find help anyway, and wanted urgently to get back in and turn off the stove. In the infinite wisdom provided by adrenalin, I decided to kick my door in.
The first kick seemed to jar it pretty well; I figured it would be easy. Successive kicks revealed it wasn't as easy as I thought, but I was already too far in to quit. I laughed while thinking that at least I knew we were pretty safe. The whining tea kettle and chirping fire alarm were calling me. The lock was already broken; I just had to finish kicking the door in. So I did, but relief did not follow. Only more panic.
The wood was splintered. I had splintered the wood down the side of the door and there were chips from the lock bending and scraping out wood. This is a heavy duty fire door, probably expensive to replace, if it needs it. I can't afford it, and I'm scared of the repercussions. With no job, and lots of travel ahead of me in the next 8 months for touring graduate schools, I cannot deal with this now.
Mike came over later and tried to repair the lock, but the metal was too bent and damaged. We removed the doorknob completely, leaving a large hole where it should have been. The deadbolt still worked, and the hole allowed the door to be opened as the knob would have. I planned to try and find a knob like it and come up with excuses later for my roommate and for my landlord. The door still functions and would probably go unnoticed if I repaired the lock myself. I just needed believable stories for why I had to give the landlord and my roommate new keys.
Then I talked to my mom.
She encouraged me to be honest and tell my landlord. I was afraid of what he might do or how he might react, but I knew it was the right thing to do. So, I traversed the green mile downstairs to his law office that afternoon, assured of my pending doom. I explained to the secretary what had happened, and she said she would send Paul up later to talk to me about it.
"I'll let you tell the story and take the heat for it," she said.
About an hour later, Paul came to my door and asked a couple of simple questions. I told him my story, and he said that he would call the locksmith and have him look at it. Although it seemed obvious he wasn't going to yell or get angry or any of the other horrible things I had imagined, I was still unsure how he felt about it. My guess is that he was pleased that I was honest with him, since I could have easily gotten a new knob and haphazardly repaired it myself and lied about the situation.
Larry the locksmith came by to fix the lock. A sixty-year-old going on fifty, Larry was full of energy and life and also one of the most kind and interesting people I could hope to meet. He told me stories about the old days of Farmington, when it was a shoe town, his struggles with his first and second wives, his grandchildren, his interesting work situations. He owned a gas station in Farmington for years, spent all his time there. They helped take care of people with their five tow trucks. The police station was right next to his station and would call him when people needed to be towed and didn't have the money. He told me the story of how he met my landlord Paul the first time, after Paul rolled his car into Larry's station. He needed a new battery, but he didn't believe Larry. Larry told him he would install the new battery and Paul could drive the car around for a week. If it worked, he could come back and pay Larry for it. They've been friends ever since.
People cried when he closed the gas station, Larry said. They helped take care of people and the town of Farmington. Larry's commitment to people, kindness, and work is incredible.
He had so many interesting stories to tell and remarked a couple of times that he has lived a full and good life. He even went so far as to say he's done everything he wants to do. After fixing my lock, he stood in the doorway of the kitchen for about twenty minutes, revealing the story of his life in a nutshell, as I sipped on Ramen noodles and wondered how on earth I always end up meeting such remarkable people and how all of this unfolded from the crazy night before.
I asked Larry if Paul told him how it had happened.
"Yeah. It's no problem. Paul said you're all good tenants. It's no problem," Larry replied.
So my door is fixed, and I've discovered a new talent--kicking in doors. Unfortunately, it's not a talent I can utilize in any sort of meaningful way. Ah, the things we learn about ourselves . . .
I returned to Jennie's room to find another chair that I'd overlooked in my frenzy, then went back to working on the alarm. After a several minutes standing on the chair and playing with the alarm on the ceiling, the constant noise finally ceased, but the alarm continued to go off on occasion and periodically emit loud chirps. Figuring it would have to suffice until I rinsed off, I returned to the shower to finish up.
After dressing myself, I put on a pot of tea, and prepared myself mentally to trouble the neighbors at 1:30 a.m. and ask for help. I left my apartment, walked two feet to the next door--Mike's door--and knocked confidently. He's a bartender and works late nights. I figured he had just gotten home from work and would be happy to help. No answer. I tried knocking a couple more times and called his name. Still no answer. I walked the two feet back to my door to find that the knob wouldn't turn. I had locked myself out with absolutely nothing, no tools or a phone or anything that might aid at getting back into the apartment. I was wearing pajamas and bedroom shoes.
Meanwhile, the fire alarm was still chirping, and I could hear the tea kettle whistling. The stove was on; I had to get back in there. Otherwise, I'd burn the whole building down. I knocked on Mike's door more and called for him with still no answer. After finally working up some courage, I went to knock on the other neighbor's door, people I don't know, in hopes that they'd answer and be willing to help. No answer there either. I was in no condition to walk any distance on a Maine winter night in my pajamas, figured it was 1 a.m. and I probably wouldn't find help anyway, and wanted urgently to get back in and turn off the stove. In the infinite wisdom provided by adrenalin, I decided to kick my door in.
The first kick seemed to jar it pretty well; I figured it would be easy. Successive kicks revealed it wasn't as easy as I thought, but I was already too far in to quit. I laughed while thinking that at least I knew we were pretty safe. The whining tea kettle and chirping fire alarm were calling me. The lock was already broken; I just had to finish kicking the door in. So I did, but relief did not follow. Only more panic.
The wood was splintered. I had splintered the wood down the side of the door and there were chips from the lock bending and scraping out wood. This is a heavy duty fire door, probably expensive to replace, if it needs it. I can't afford it, and I'm scared of the repercussions. With no job, and lots of travel ahead of me in the next 8 months for touring graduate schools, I cannot deal with this now.
Mike came over later and tried to repair the lock, but the metal was too bent and damaged. We removed the doorknob completely, leaving a large hole where it should have been. The deadbolt still worked, and the hole allowed the door to be opened as the knob would have. I planned to try and find a knob like it and come up with excuses later for my roommate and for my landlord. The door still functions and would probably go unnoticed if I repaired the lock myself. I just needed believable stories for why I had to give the landlord and my roommate new keys.
Then I talked to my mom.
She encouraged me to be honest and tell my landlord. I was afraid of what he might do or how he might react, but I knew it was the right thing to do. So, I traversed the green mile downstairs to his law office that afternoon, assured of my pending doom. I explained to the secretary what had happened, and she said she would send Paul up later to talk to me about it.
"I'll let you tell the story and take the heat for it," she said.
About an hour later, Paul came to my door and asked a couple of simple questions. I told him my story, and he said that he would call the locksmith and have him look at it. Although it seemed obvious he wasn't going to yell or get angry or any of the other horrible things I had imagined, I was still unsure how he felt about it. My guess is that he was pleased that I was honest with him, since I could have easily gotten a new knob and haphazardly repaired it myself and lied about the situation.
Larry the locksmith came by to fix the lock. A sixty-year-old going on fifty, Larry was full of energy and life and also one of the most kind and interesting people I could hope to meet. He told me stories about the old days of Farmington, when it was a shoe town, his struggles with his first and second wives, his grandchildren, his interesting work situations. He owned a gas station in Farmington for years, spent all his time there. They helped take care of people with their five tow trucks. The police station was right next to his station and would call him when people needed to be towed and didn't have the money. He told me the story of how he met my landlord Paul the first time, after Paul rolled his car into Larry's station. He needed a new battery, but he didn't believe Larry. Larry told him he would install the new battery and Paul could drive the car around for a week. If it worked, he could come back and pay Larry for it. They've been friends ever since.
People cried when he closed the gas station, Larry said. They helped take care of people and the town of Farmington. Larry's commitment to people, kindness, and work is incredible.
He had so many interesting stories to tell and remarked a couple of times that he has lived a full and good life. He even went so far as to say he's done everything he wants to do. After fixing my lock, he stood in the doorway of the kitchen for about twenty minutes, revealing the story of his life in a nutshell, as I sipped on Ramen noodles and wondered how on earth I always end up meeting such remarkable people and how all of this unfolded from the crazy night before.
I asked Larry if Paul told him how it had happened.
"Yeah. It's no problem. Paul said you're all good tenants. It's no problem," Larry replied.
So my door is fixed, and I've discovered a new talent--kicking in doors. Unfortunately, it's not a talent I can utilize in any sort of meaningful way. Ah, the things we learn about ourselves . . .