DATE #1; DELAYED #2

by Steve Clem on September 17, 2009

Tonight’s version of my blog is another retelling of an old story. More than two years ago, in fact. But it’s a night which will live in my mind forever.

Two years plus back, a good friend of mine who was down on his luck needed a place to crash for a few weeks or so (it ended up being over 6 months, but I digress). So I spent an entire Saturday helping him move things either to my meager two bedroom townhouse, or to his storage locker.

Around 5 or so, I had to bow out because I needed to get ready for a first date with someone I was excited to meet. I ended up dating her for over a year, and she to this day is an incredible friend to me. Again, digressing.

The new roomie and his girlfriend had a few more loads to bring yet that night, so I gave him my house key to finish the job.

As I was getting ready to leave for my date, the new roomie and his girlfriend arrived with their last load. I asked him for my key, a habit I have since I’m always paranoid about what would happen if the garage door suddenly wouldn’t open due to power failure or some other factor. He said fine, but wondered how he’d lock up when he was done.

I thought about it and suggested he just lock the bolt on the front door, then run out the garage door after pushing the button. Easy enough, right? I guess not, and you’ll see why later.

So I go on my date, have a fantastic time at dinner, then end up hanging out until almost 2 a.m. sitting on her patio watching her dog and her roommate’s dog chase each other around. I decide it’s time to head home, and set on my way.

About halfway home I realized I really really had to go to the bathroom. Not the “pull over and hide behind a bush” kind either. The big deuce.

I pulled into my driveway and hit the garage door opener. Nothing. I pull the remote off the visor and shake it and try about 20 more times. “Good thing I got that key,” I think to myself.

I walk up to the front door, insert the key, and…nothing. Yeah seriously. It didn’t work. I tried calling my new roomie at his old apartment where he was staying one last night. No answer.

30 attempts to awaken him did no good. FML.

I quickly went into panic mode, thinking that I was going to have to drop a deuce in my 6×6 manicured lawn, without toilet paper. I envisioned running to a neighbor’s house, but then remembered that a) nobody there knew me, and b) nobody was awaked at 2:30 a.m.

Yet nature was calling. I even was starting to sweat profusely on my forehead and feared what they might find the next morning. A dead man, smeared in poo and sweat, his hand frozen as if he were clawing at his front door.

But damnit. I had to sleep tonight too.

So I called a locksmith, and searched in my trunk for duct tape to prevent me from having an accident before he arrived.

The locksmith arrived. A chatty fellow. Slow too. Every word made my stomach rumble more and more. He tried to open the lock. And tried some more. And some more. After an hour of trying, he said his only option was to drill through the current lock and replace it. “That’s fine. Just make it fast, please!”

30 minutes later, he finally broke through the lock and the door was open. “Now I’ll install the new lock,” he pronounced. “I tell you what, while you do that, I am going to go take care of some business that is urgent inside.”

After ripping off the duct tape dam (no, I didn’t really do this, but just making sure you’re still reading), I rushed into the little boys’ room and took care of my mighty deuce.

The next morning I learned that the new roomie had 1) inadvertantly given me his apartment key instead of my townhouse key, and 2) when he went to go out through the garage door, he inadvertantly hit the combination of buttons that makes it automatically lock to all openers. Nice.

The lesson for the evening? Always wear Depends on your first date.

* * * *

Steve Clem originally published this piece on the blog A Prisoner in the Tundra.

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