M72. SITUATION COMEDY
Home maintenance is not our forte. We have neglected
our sprawling, fifty-year-old, three-bedroom house.
When we come home from our paying jobs, we are too
tired to clean and repair. We just want to pursue
happiness, which is not derived from raking leaves,
or dusting row after row of books, or removing the
clutter in order to vacuum a great expanse of
wall-to-wall carpeting. Major work involving
carpentry, wiring, or plumbing, are nemesis because
of my ineptitude. Even if by chance we have the
energy when we arrive home, we're eager to pursue our
not-paying-so-well second careers as artists. Ms
Keogh paints. I write.
The door of the yellow bathroom has swollen with the
humidity. There was an increasingly loud squeak
between the door and sill. Eventually it stopped
opening. The lock was never applied, yet the door
refused to budge and the doorknob refused to turn all
the way, just as if it were locked. In the last
couple of weeks, Ms Keogh was getting locked in for
long minutes, either until I came to help with my
weight and strength, or she recollected an old skill
of sliding and jiggling a credit card in just such a
way as to move the bolt.
On one recent night Ms Keogh forgot to bring a credit
card with her into the bathroom, a senseless habit at
any other time. I had to come to the rescue. With a
particular pattern too troublesome to bother
describing in words, an elaborate ritual of knob
pulling, pushing, lifting, and turning all in very
particular order, I had the door opened. It took a
bit longer than usual; I had failed to appreciate
that the door was becoming more adamant in its
resistance.
Having opened the door, I stepped into the warm,
steaming bathroom, where the love of my life stood
naked, drying herself with a towel. With a pride that
comes naturally to men, I was determined to teach her
how to open the bathroom's door without a card. Even
as she was insisting this was ill-advised, I had shut
the door again and we found ourselves once more
trapped, but this time together. Assuring her that
all was well and to pay close heed to my technique, I
launched into my elaborate ritual of knob pulling,
pushing, lifting, and turning all in very particular
order, and the door remained stuck. I extended my
efforts beyond the usual time necessary. I was
decidedly disadvantaged in that my additional
technique of applying my shoulder was inappropriate
on this side of the door, which opens in. I had
started to work myself into a sweat. Meantime, Ms
Keogh was exhausting herself with laughter at my
expense. She had robed and proceeded to take over the
endeavor.
Since she did not have a card, I had to supply the
required tool from my wallet, a Blockbuster card for
renting movies, the premise being it was the least
valuable card in my collection. Ms Keogh then
artfully began stabbing and wiggling the card between
the door and frame. Even she admitted this was taking
longer than usual and was growing anxious. She blamed
my choice of cards, the Blockbuster being too thin,
but in time it worked. She had us freed.
She departed the bathroom, but I did not. I am sorry
to report that my pride would not let this little
adventure conclude here. I was convinced my method
could still work. I again closed the door. I'll be to
the point, I could not open it. I was inside the
yellow bathroom and Ms Keogh was without. We both
found ourselves on the wrong sides for our technical
proclivities. I did not have the practiced talent of
using a credit card to slide the bolt and she did not
have the brute strength to manhandle the doorknob and
shoulder the door. We tried. She slipped my
Blockbuster card under the door and I destroyed all
four edges attempting to pull off her trick. She,
meanwhile, strained her wrists and bruised her
shoulder. Even so, we both appreciated the humor of
our situation, being jovial and swapping jokes
through the door that had become a wall.
It was necessary for Ms Keogh to get dressed and
bring me a set of tools to be passed through the
bathroom window. When my parents lived in this house,
every autumn the screens came off, were thoroughly
cleaned, and they were stored for winter. In the
spring, the tracks were cleared with a steel brush
and the screens restored to the windows. Ms Keogh and
I have been living here more than a dozen years
during which time the screens have stayed in place.
The screen in our bathroom window had also grown
content and lazy and would not permit itself to be
removed. It was only due to my brutal impatience that
a corner of the screen was accidentally torn from its
frame and now Ms Keogh could slip through the tools.
It was a long sweat removing the door hinges, which
also seemed to have grown fat and lazy, and had been
painted over. Their removal made no difference. The
swollen door would not give way. Ultimately, I freed
myself by prying and wedging the head of the screw
driver between the door and frame, near the lock,
chewing a large piece of moist wood out of the door.
It was a hideous scar, but I was free at last, and we
were still laughing. We reminded ourselves it would
be one less worry after we sold the house, and in the
meantime we must never again close the door all the
way, except maybe in dry seasons if the door happens
to shrink.
Jokes are never as funny the second time. What was
funny that one night, was not as funny the
consecutive night. I was keeping Ms Keogh company,
reading to her while she bathed. While she was drying
herself, we were talking and laughing about something
that, when I leaned against the bathroom door, was
quickly forgotten. I had closed it all the way. We
were stuck in the bathroom. The door had become more
determined overnight and nothing we could do with
card or brute strength would even shake it. The tools
had been put away the night before.
It was now necessary for me to tear the rest of the
screen away in order to climb out the window. The
window is not large and I am not small. Yes, it would
have been easier for me to lift Ms Keogh and slip her
out the window, but she was wearing only her
bathrobe.
Even with the tools I could not get the door opened
from the outside. Engaging my fist and shoulder only
succeeded in a cascade of white paint chips leaving
behind a grey door with newly created cracks. My big
body had to once again pass through the small window
so that I could work the door from the inside. With a
little further damage, we got the door opened.
To prevent any reoccurrence of this drama, I have
stuck duct tape across the bolt. The door can now be
closed without peril. We are compelled, Ms Keogh and
I, to make a greater effort in the future to sell
this house sooner as opposed to later. We shall rent
a small garret in Paris and live happily ever after
as artistes.
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