Breaking and entering
It was my last breakfast in Portland, both happy to have had a good time and sad to be leaving; I was lovingly frying eggs. Mr. and Mrs. House had flown to a funeral in MN so it was just me and the cats in their big beautiful place. I covered the eggs and turned them down, skipping outside to gather garden herbs. Upon return, clutching my little handful of basil and thyme, I turned the door knob and my heart puddled.
I’d locked myself out.
In that classic grad-student absent-mindedness, I’d failed to unlock from the inside and also failed to pocket the key. A poignant pang of Wishing zipped through me for that key. I didn’t have my cell-phone either. And besides, what good would that have done? Mrs. Helpful Neighbor’s number was locked inside as well.
I did a quick pass around the house looking for open windows or propped doors, but true to his thorough self, Mr. House had the place zipped tight. And no wonder: it was splendid and huge and stocked with nice things.
And my eggs were in there, cooking away all by their lonesome.
So breaking and entering it was.
I felt again that accustomed excitement at the challenge of breaking into somebodies house. This has happened twice before on house-sitting occasions. I seem to be dumb enough to forget about keys and automatic locks, but light and strong enough to be able to find my way in again. So at least it balances it out somewhat.
My best bet-my only bet-was the screened window atop the back door, fastened to the molding with staples. It was about the size of an oven’s lower-pull-out tray, and I reasoned I could fit my shoulders through at least. I positioned a deck chair under it, put a foot on the door handle, and hefted myself up.
Those eggs inside sizzled away.
Reaching over my head I ripped the screen from the staples, cringing with each pull, and hefted my head and shoulders through the hole. But what was I thinking? It would be asinine to try and pry the rest of me through that hole, and then where to? Gravity? At least I was shirt-dusting some hard-to-reach-and very filthy-places for Mr. and Mrs. House.
Those eggs sure smelled good now.
Why can’t we train cats to fetch keys?
And then! A glorious moment of thinking. A tool! I’m a human: I can use tools! (I’m also a Wayman) I uninterred a tomato stake from their garden and climbed back up again. With my arm and new extension, I poked through that window and pushed the stake down on the inner door handle. And with the weight of my foot on the outer handle the door flung open. Leaving me dangling from their porch like a set of wind chimes.
I was in!
But now their violated screen yawned pathetically, a giant bug-welcoming hole. To fix that... What I would have given for a staple-gun! A goodly hunt downstairs yielded no staple gun, but only a hammer. So I painstakingly pulled out each staple, repositioned the screen, and re-hammered the staples into their holes. And nobody will be the wiser.
And I must say: those were the most thoroughly cooked eggs I have ever consumed. But they did have delicious fresh herbs on them.
I’d locked myself out.
In that classic grad-student absent-mindedness, I’d failed to unlock from the inside and also failed to pocket the key. A poignant pang of Wishing zipped through me for that key. I didn’t have my cell-phone either. And besides, what good would that have done? Mrs. Helpful Neighbor’s number was locked inside as well.
I did a quick pass around the house looking for open windows or propped doors, but true to his thorough self, Mr. House had the place zipped tight. And no wonder: it was splendid and huge and stocked with nice things.
And my eggs were in there, cooking away all by their lonesome.
So breaking and entering it was.
I felt again that accustomed excitement at the challenge of breaking into somebodies house. This has happened twice before on house-sitting occasions. I seem to be dumb enough to forget about keys and automatic locks, but light and strong enough to be able to find my way in again. So at least it balances it out somewhat.
My best bet-my only bet-was the screened window atop the back door, fastened to the molding with staples. It was about the size of an oven’s lower-pull-out tray, and I reasoned I could fit my shoulders through at least. I positioned a deck chair under it, put a foot on the door handle, and hefted myself up.
Those eggs inside sizzled away.
Reaching over my head I ripped the screen from the staples, cringing with each pull, and hefted my head and shoulders through the hole. But what was I thinking? It would be asinine to try and pry the rest of me through that hole, and then where to? Gravity? At least I was shirt-dusting some hard-to-reach-and very filthy-places for Mr. and Mrs. House.
Those eggs sure smelled good now.
Why can’t we train cats to fetch keys?
And then! A glorious moment of thinking. A tool! I’m a human: I can use tools! (I’m also a Wayman) I uninterred a tomato stake from their garden and climbed back up again. With my arm and new extension, I poked through that window and pushed the stake down on the inner door handle. And with the weight of my foot on the outer handle the door flung open. Leaving me dangling from their porch like a set of wind chimes.
I was in!
But now their violated screen yawned pathetically, a giant bug-welcoming hole. To fix that... What I would have given for a staple-gun! A goodly hunt downstairs yielded no staple gun, but only a hammer. So I painstakingly pulled out each staple, repositioned the screen, and re-hammered the staples into their holes. And nobody will be the wiser.
And I must say: those were the most thoroughly cooked eggs I have ever consumed. But they did have delicious fresh herbs on them.