Keyed

"I'd stop this world
If I could find the key."


-- Steven Curtis Chapman, "The King of the Jungle"


--


Yesterday, a series of situations that brought about a Situation--not an Emergency. A parable (maybe), but too long of a story to relate here. I'll summarize the intro and only tell the best part:


It was a stressful morning, so I decided to go for a run in the afternoon. I lost my apartment keys, which I always keep in a pocket, somewhere along the route, and after retracing all my steps (walking about four miles), I found no key. I was locked out of my apartment, where I had left my car keys, cell phone, and wallet.


The first step was to call someone who could get me in touch with my landlord, who could get me in touch with the property manager, who lives next door. Because I looked ridiculous in my green Okoboji hoodie, Under Armour bottoms, and shorts, I decided to try for a phone at the local library, where everyone looks ridiculous. It's almost always filled with homeless folks and bizarre Kentuckians.


The reference librarian was skeptical but let me make a few calls, and once I'd gotten the numbers I needed and arranged for a co-worker to pick me up, I dicked around the library, read the first chapter of a random book, and then went to wait outside.


I realized once I was outside again that I hadn't stretched after my long run and longer walk, so among the thugs and bums that hang out by the door, I started stretching. It was awkward, and I felt stupid. At one point, two black kids on scooters came up to me and tried to read my hoodie.


"Ok-a-bah-jee?"


"It's Okoboji," I said, sighing. "It's a lake in Iowa."


--


I sat on the concrete steps and waited for my ride. And here might be the best part of the story:


I hadn't been sitting for more than a minute when I felt something hit the side of my head. I recoiled just in time to see a cigarette butt flying away from my face. Then I heard a woman's voice say, "Oh, honey, I'm sorry!" It was some fat white woman who had finished her smoke and flicked it away, seeing in the corner of her eye that it had hit someone. "It's okay," I said, and started laughing.


I had been hit in the head by a flying cigarette butt.


This story ends happily, with me getting a ride to my apartment, getting in touch with my landlady and property manager, getting spare keys (which I will get copied later today), and getting on with life.


And at 4:00pm, I finally had breakfast.


--


And now, the things I learned.


1.) From now on, whenever I run, I'm leaving my keys in my mailbox, under a mat, on the tire of my car, wherever. I'm never bringing my keys with me again.


2.) You don't realize how much trash there is on the sidewalk until you are looking for something on it. A lot of the trash is small, about the size and shape of a key. It's very hard to find something small like that when there's so much trash around. There's also a lot more trash as you get closer to the river, where the richer people live; not sure why that is, and maybe it has more to do with the number of people who walk through that part of town than with the amount of money people make there. But it's interesting.


3.) You also don't realize how easy it might be to break into your apartment until you are considering doing it yourself. Climbing an iron gate isn't that difficult, and scaling a fire-escape is conspicuous but doable. If raccoons can do it, chances are humans can, too.


4.) You're never in control of life. You only think you are, and you gather possessions and luxuries that give you a false sense of security. It's only when you're separated from things like keys, phones and money that you realize just how fine the line is between daily routine and a day of chaos and worry.


5.) Not freaking out in tough situations is underrated.


6.) No matter how badly your day has gone, just wait.


--


I thought a lot about those keys yesterday, and I can't resist thinking about them today. Where are they? Someone's lawn, waiting to be picked up by a toddler, waiting to be discovered by a lawnmower and mangled? A sewer, anonymous among decayed leaves? Wedged neatly in the crack of the sidewalk, unseen for years and years until the concrete buckles under a repairman's jackhammer?


And then I remember that it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter one bit.