Locked outThree months living in my new condo and I want to drop to my knees and thank the real estate gods. I come home to my own private parking space. Large Dumpsters huddle around a turn waiting for my garbage, which I can put out any time I want. There’s a laundry only feet from my door. An office where condo association members meet monthly and I can vent. Except, I have nothing to be angry about. No annoying kids hanging out. As the sign says, “No ball playing, skateboarding, bicycling riding, roller skating.” The nearest bar is blocks away, and only one road leads in and out.
Yes, it is on a hill, but my new town does an excellent job salting. I found a new auto mechanic, barber, shopping center, fruit and vegetable store, jogging route, pharmacy, and local theatre within the first few weeks. I have a solid wood handmade bar with matching shelves. I have two air conditioners and a ceiling fan, glistening wooden floors, a mirrored bedroom wardrobe, and new light fixtures.
Mostly, I have quiet. I can write, think, imagine with only the low hum of my Millennium 2000 providing background constancy. I am in Nirvana.
So one day I return to my castle, unload my bags, keys, wallet, hat, and newspaper on the kitchen table. I walk back to my mailbox just outside my front door, which leads to a tiny vestibule. I grab my mail as I hear my inside door slam shut (which it always does) behind me. I scan my mail. Nothing interesting. I’m hungry, time to eat. I try the knob. Nothing. I take a step back.
Okay, I know I left the lock in the unlocked position like I always do. This is a misunderstanding. I try again, more forcefully. Locked. I take a step back and think. I have no wallet, glasses, cell phone, money, hat, or jacket. I do have a spare set of house keys in my glove compartment, but my car is locked. I don’t know any of my neighbors well enough to give them a spare. That was one of the selling points, complete privacy.
I step outside and look around. It is about 5:15 p.m. and my old neighborhood would have been bustling with people. No one is in sight. I decide to ring the super’s bell and ask if they have a master key. His apartment is only 20 yards away. I ring and ring. No response. Okay, try the office door. Eighty-four condos, there must be someone in the damn office. Locked. Okay. Think. Check car, maybe I left one door unlocked. Uh uh. Still no one around.
Ring upstairs bell hoping I can use their phone, maybe call AAA, get them to open my car so I can get my spare keys. No answer. Don’t any of these people eat supper? I stand there helpless. Think.
I walk down the hill to the Pathmark, where the customer service woman quickly informs me the police will not help, and she can’t make outside calls with her land phone. She offers me her cell, adding that it is prepaid and to make it quick. I call my brother’s voice mail, then his home. No answer. She stares at me and I hand her back the phone. Trudge back up the hill, ring super’s bell six times. No answer. Where the hell is this guy who was so helpful when I moved in?
It’s getting chillier. Think. There’s the owner of the Sunoco station straight up another hill, leading to a main road. He fixed my brakes three months before. Surely he’ll pitch in. Ten minutes later, I’m puffing mightily as I stagger into his office. I explain my plight. He is stern, olive-skinned – a tough, take-charge guy. His wife lets me use her cell to call AAA. No answer. What the hell? Call the central office, she says, giving me an 800 number. Before I can dial, Omar, the boss, tells me to shut off the phone and grabs an employee. He will open your car, he promises, holding up a long metal rod and a plastic doo-dad used to pry open windows. Thank you, thank you. I’m elated.
I drive back down to my car with this young fellow who speaks not a word of English. For 15 minutes he tries unsuccessfully to open the lock, getting so close I want to pound something. I keep ringing the super’s bell to no avail. The temperature has dropped to a point where I’m getting chills. He gives up. We return to the station where Omar stares at him dumbfounded. “You couldn’t open the car???” Pause.
“Come with me. I will open your car.” He grabs the rod, I start to follow.
“Not you,” he says to me. “You stay here.”
I feel like a 12-year old. His wife and I make small talk. She buys me a Diet Pepsi. Minutes pass. I imagine my old neighborhood where I knew everyone. Where three separate people I could trust had spare keys to my house. Where all I had to do was ring a bell and I would’ve been welcomed inside, given food, comforted.
Omar returns and stares at me, a smile forming. He did it. Thank you sir, thank you. I shake his hand vigorously. He waits. What?
He says to me, “Aren’t you going to ask what you owe me?”
“Yes, yes, of course, I just don’t have my wallet which is …”
“$25. Pay me tomorrow.” He disappears into the work area. I want to hug someone, his wife, the young worker, the guy pumping gas. Instead I plow down the hill to my unlocked car, grab the spare keys as the wind blows up and in seconds I’m safe inside my domicile. My quiet, isolated, perfect one-bedroom condo with the stained bar and shelves and ceiling fan.
I sit motionless on my couch staring at my spotless wood floor. Waiting for the trembling to cease. Waiting for a sound.
– Joe Del Priore, North Bergen
Joe Del Priore is a frequent contributor to the Current.