Tag Archives: locked out

Story A Day May #5

First, thanks to all the new blog followers, and for all the likes the last few days! The writing challenge is already going better than the last time I tried it two years ago, which is sad as I think about it. I think by this time I’d missed a day, did a couple more stories and then once I missed a few more days, got completely out of writing anything.

Second, today’s story may or may not be based upon true events, and it may or may not have happened to yours truly. So take that however you will, and enjoy!

May 5, 2015

No word prompts

Snow Day

            I heard it. The loudest, most ominous click I’d heard in my life. The second that door shut, I knew it. It finally happened—a moment I had been waiting for. I forgot to push up the latch on the kitchen door, and locked myself out of the house.

I couldn’t even compare options, as I had less than few. I, and two dogs, were stuck outside in twenty degree weather with seven inches of snow on the ground, and daylight was fast fading. Dressed in jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and socks was not making this predicament better. At least the dogs had higher body temperatures and actually wanted to be out in the snow.

I remembered early (like early, early) that morning, I tripped over my husband’s boots that he left on the middle of the back porch. For a second, I closed my eyes, thinking I’d tossed them in the house in my pre-six am grumpiness. Holding my breath, I glanced down.

A victory. Those boots might have been many sizes too big, but at least I had one more advantage against the cold. Next, I tried the door. A useless action, but I suppose something everyone would do. A last rally against stupidity. I started to cry, started to think about really crying, but realized it would help by zero percent, so I stopped. My other saving grace – I had my phone. I called my husband, who was at work. We decided on me going to front door and trying to ‘break’ into the porch door by peeling back the screen and reaching in to unlatch that door. I set off, shoving the back gate open enough to squeeze through and tromped my way around the house. I got the corner of the screen pulled out and then tapped my finger on the glass, knowing my husband was thinking of the time he did this trick when it was summer and the storm windows weren’t up. After two more phone calls, one to my mother who has a spare key to my house, (and who wasn’t home), I told my husband that I could see Craig’s car in the driveway across the street.

“I’m going to Karl and Craig’s.”

“What are they going to do?”

“I don’t know, but at least one of them is home and they’re guys, so I’m sure they’ll be helpful.”

Lucky for me, Craig and his husband were home. Karl answered the door, and I told him what happened. He ushered me inside.

“So the back door is locked. The front porch door. The front door. What about the basement door?” asked Craig.

“Locked,” I said.

“Is it a regular deadbolt or key deadbolt?”

“Key deadbolt.”

“Do you keep the key in the lock or somewhere you could reach it if we broke out a pane of glass?” he said.

“It’s hanging on a nail in one of the ceiling beams.”

“Nowhere you can reach it.”

I shook my head.

“Are you hiding gold bars in your house?” he said.

“Nooo! I lock the doors when Lee is at work,” I said.

“Are any of your windows unlocked?” said Karl.

“I want to say maybe the dining room or the bathroom window.”

“Seriously, what are you hiding in your house?” said Craig.

We finally settled on a plan of getting a ladder in order to reach a window. They gave me a coat, and Karl and I headed to the garage. We got an eight foot ladder, carried it across the street where I decided the bathroom window would be the best chance for an unlocked area.

I held the ladder while Karl climbed up. He managed to pop the screen out and tried the window. The familiar squealing sound of the old window opening was the best thing I’d heard all day.

“Wow. Your house is surprisingly easy to break into,” he said.

“Yeah, if you happen to be toting around an eight foot ladder on your crime spree,” I said. “Is it sad that I’m now trying to remember if I left my underwear on the floor?”

“Well, I see a cat,” he said. “Okay, it’s your turn.” He came down the ladder. “I’m too old to be climbing through windows.”

I started up the ladder. “I feel like this is a reason people have children. Ooh, maybe we can borrow the toddler next door. We’ll tie a string around her waist like a spy movie.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” he said.

I reached the top of the ladder and stared through the small opening. “Uuuuuhhhhh.”

“Feet or shoulders,” said Karl.

“Crap. Maybe shoulders.” I put one arm through the window, followed by my head and shoulder. I felt stuck for a second, not sure how to proceed. While not the biggest fan of ladders, the prospect of taking my foot off the rung was unpleasant. I got my tiptoes on the rung, grabbed the windowsill with my left hand and managed to get my butt on the window. I pulled my left leg through. If not for my husband’s boots, my foot would not have reached, and as it was, I could only get the tip of the boot onto the bathroom floor. I chose to slide sideways, hoping that I wouldn’t fall on my head.

The moment my whole body was enveloped in the warmth and coziness of my house, I never felt more relieved to be indoors, and I felt a tiny bit of pride at being about to fit through the bathroom window.


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