Cupcake's Crummy Night

I am a simple girl. I have simple wants. But often times, even these are thwarted. Let's examine last night.

Cupcake's Plan for Monday Night:

Do Laundry and watch some Arrested Development on DVD

God's Plan for Cupcake on Monday Night:

Jump through some fiery hoops. That's right, jump.

I stopped off at the Video store as I exited the subway and rented Arrested Development Season One Disc Three, then I made sure to walk past the laundromat on my way home to check out what time last wash is. I crossed the street, entered my building, but that is about as far as I got.

I could open the top lock to my apartment, but I could not open the bottom lock and therefore the door. I remember having difficulty with the lock that morning, but, being in a hurry, I just pushed the button and hurried to catch my train. The key would not turn in the lock. I could not get in.

Last night was a hot night, about 85 degrees and humid. I stood there, turning and turning the key as a few people entered the building. Perhaps now would be a good time to point out that I haven't met any of my neighbors. I've said hi to a couple people in the building, but no introductions have been made, no "if you ever need anything" offers have been issued. I am sweating, and, wearing winter-weight slacks because it is time to do laundry (see above).

There was a number for a 24 hour Locksmith on my door, written below the top lock. I called the number from outside on the stoop. "Hi, I'm locked out."

"Okay, we can send someone out to get you in. Where do you live?"

"Brooklyn."

"Oh, we don't go to Brooklyn."

"What do you mean, you don't go to Brooklyn? The name of your company and your phone number is on my door, which is in Brooklyn."

"What's your address?" I told him.

"No, we're not going out there. Why don't you get someone local. They'll probably charge you less anyway."

So, I started walking down the street in my hood, trying to recall if I had seen a Locksmith nearby. No luck. Then, I made kind of a dumb move, in stead of walking towards Flatbush where there are a lot more businesses, I started walking in the opposite direction. I called Hooly, who was in the Editing Room at work and couldn't talk long. "I don't understand. Why would my key just stop working?"

"I don't know but that has happened to me before. Did you try spraying WD-40 on your key?" I started walking back towards Flatbush and figured, hey, maybe before I go paying for a locksmith, I should at least try WD-40. So I walked to the nearest market. Did I mention it was hot?

I was relieved just to be inside the A/C. I was in a large Brooklyn supermarket which is to say, not a bodega, but not any place you would volunteerily choose to shop. I picked up a few things, then went in search of WD-40. I couldn't find it, yet knew it had to be here. There was no one to ask. I stared over and over again at cans of Ajax and Raid willing it to appear. I figured that WD-40 is basically a lubricant, so if I bought some non-stick cooking spray, that would probably do the same thing and be more useful over all. But then I began to panic. What if there was some magic ingredient in WD-40 that magically makes keys open locks?? I found someone to ask, and after he asked two more people, they pointed me to a dark corner where there was one can of WD-40 that looked like it had been hanging out on that shelf since 1986. I took it.

Walking home, I stopped just short of my stoop, and sprayed the hell out of the key. It still did not turn in the lock. I sprayed the lock. Nothing. Neighbors continued to pass me in the hall. In addition to sweat dripping off me, I now smelled of WD-40 and couldn't get a solid grip on anything. I went back out to the street.

The sun was just beginning to set, but it was still hot. I remained in my work clothes. Now I was additionally schlepping around sandwhich bags, a roll of aluminum foil, 2000 Brushes, and a can of WD-40, my purchases from the market. I started walking down Flatbush until I came to the first Locksmith I saw. It was closed, but on the awning, there was a telephone for "Fast 24 Hr. Emergency Lockout Service". I called the number. It just rang and rang. I continued walking and calling.

There are times when crying can be productive; this was not one of them. I didn't feel like crying. I did feel like eating. But most of all, I just wanted to be inside my apartment. I called L'Ingenue and asked her to look up some phone numbers for locksmiths, which she was very nice to do. I called the first number and they promised to send someone out. I walked home to sit on my stoop and wait.

LaHipster called and when I told her what was up, she offered to come wait with me. She warned that she had been out running and she stunk; I told her we could have a stink-a-thon on my stoop together. We were both pretty gross. God said, "See, I threw you a wicked curve ball, but you have awesome friends, so what are you complaining about?" Soon the locksmith arrived. He tried my key in the lock for about 10 seconds then said, "No good." The problem was with the lock, which was all funny. When I asked him what could of caused that he kind of shrugged and suggested that maybe someone had messed with it. "Does that make you nervous?" asked LaHipster.

"No. Only if I think about it. Which I'm not going to."

The locksmith had a hell of a time getting the lock out. Sweat ran down his face. LaHipster compared it to childbirth. She began making faces, then said, quietly, "You realize this guy has no idea what he's doing?" He'd been working on the lock for over 20 minutes. I didn't care. He could have pulled out a stick of cartoon dynamite and blown off the door; I just wanted to get in.

2 Hours 15 minutes and $200 dollars later I was in and the proud owner of a new lock. LaHipster made a beeline to the faucet and I to the fridge.

So, what's on the agenda for tonight? Laundry.