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tapped out
posted Wednesday, 8 June 2005
I left my keys at the rink. I didn’t mean to. You never do. It was a sweaty, exhausting practice and we were all a little loopy/ Plus, I had other things on my mind. Mainly, my bus trip to Boston the next day and my plane trip to Boulder on Wednesday. Five days to be in nature and look at mountains and get away and see how Colorado treats me. Better than New York, I hoped. The city heard me and decided on all-out war.
I realized the keys were still in my locker as soon as I stepped on the 5 train downtown, but I didn’t worry yet. Teammates had been lingering at the rink when I left, so there was a good chance that I’d get back before the doors closed. I got off at 125th Street, caught an uptown train immediately, and one stop later, was running up the stairs and down the block to the rink door. Locked. The girls were gone and the door was shut tight, no matter how loud I banged. I’d spent months coming up to the Bronx for practice and had grown comfortable in the area, however seedy. But standing alone on the dark corner, in a short skirt in the summer heat, I started to get nervous. I headed back to the subway, on to plan B.
There was an extra set of keys in my office at work, or there used to be. I’d switched offices and couldn’t remember if I’d brought the set into the new space. Or if I’d given them to my ex-boyfriend. I prayed I’d find them hanging on my bulletin board, like they used to, and decided to go to plan C in the meantime. I called the teammates who’d left the rink last, leaving messages asking if they’d seen my keys and picked them up. It was likely, maybe. I headed downtown, to the west side. I ran into one of the derby girls on the way there, and told her the story so far, trying not to panic. “They’ll be there,” she said. “Don’t worry.” I took a deep breath and tried not to. I didn’t want to go to plan D.
We left the subway into pouring rain and no umbrellas. Our skirts plastered against our legs and my sandals rubbed layers of skin off my toes and ankle. I said goodbye to my friend as I picked up the call from my teammate - no one had found my keys. Another window shut. I felt the panic rising and ran the three blocks to my office building as best I could on torn-up feet and wet cobblestones.
The lights were on; at least that was a relief. But the doors were locked and when I banged on the glass, the workers painting the lobby just shrugged at me and turned back to their brushes. The panic built until I heard the crackle of the intercom; the guard I hadn’t seen hidden behind the desk, asking me what I was doing. He buzzed me in and gave me a lecture about procedure until he heard the desperation in my voice. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I have to get upstairs. I’m having a really terrible day.” He let me go, gentler now. I fought back tears in the elevator to the fifth floor. I had to get my keys; I had to pack; I had to get so much work done tomorrow so that I could get on a bus to Boston and a plane to Boulder with nothing hanging over my head; I had to avoid plan D. It wasn’t about the keys anymore; it was about no control over anything. It was about obstacles and the loss of autonomy and nothing working out right, ever. I was tired of fighting. The elevator doors dinged open.
No keys were hanging on my office bulletin board, but I was desperately hopeful. I needed them to be there. I found two keys in my top desk drawer, and though they didn’t look like house keys, they also didn’t fit any lock in my office, so I clung to the slim chance that they were what they did not seem. I grabbed a dry sweatshirt and headed back out into the rain, hailing a cab to get home as quickly as possible. I justified the cost as money well spent if I could keep my equilibrium. Or some small shred of it. The cab pulled up to my front door and I asked the driver to wait.
I ran up to the door and tried the first key. A mismatch, no luck. The second key didn’t go in either, but I tried them both again and again, hoping my need would turn the lock. I ran back into the cab, trying to decide what to do next. Go to Jay’s house in Park Slope, where I could shower and sleep and calm down? But I needed to pack, I needed to travel. I needed into my apartment. Plans had been made, people relying on me to do things, and the rain was still coming down and my options were dwindling.
I didn’t want to, but I had to. It was the easiest solution, in a way. I went to plan D and called my ex, the one who still had my keys. The keys that should’ve been hanging in my office, for battles like this. I got his voicemail as a second call came in; I tried to pick it up, but ended up leaving babbling nonsense on his voicemail instead. Humiliation added to humiliation. I called back and gave him the details; I was locked out, I needed the key, call me. He never picked up. I hadn’t expected him to. Humiliation for nothing.
One more last-ditch attempt. The upstairs neighbors buzzed me into the building and let me climb out their fire escape. They even leant me a flat-head screwdriver to try and pry the window open. I spent twenty minutes doing my best, but I’d performed this trick a few months before (shutting the door behind me before I realized the house key was still inside), and had bulked up security. The window was locked. The rain was pounding. Jay said come over, I could deal with it tomorrow. All the plans, all the good intentions, all the things I wanted to do. There was no time now. I climbed up the fire escape and walked back out to the street, to the subway, to my friends’ house. Plan F.
It took an hour to get there, three hours after I left the skate rink the second time. After midnight. Jay and Jeff were up watching TV, and they gave me a hot shower and an inflatable bed and a little perspective. I would get my keys at some point during the day (I’d gotten a call on my way over; the rink manager would be there to open the door), and go home and pack after work. I would change my bus ticket, leave early the next morning. It should be enough time to get to the airport, if nothing else goes wrong. I’d get as much done in the office as I could (though nowhere what I needed to get done, what I should’ve finished, and that was impossible to feel good about). It would be okay.
I knew it would from the start, but I’m tired of the fight.
I realized the keys were still in my locker as soon as I stepped on the 5 train downtown, but I didn’t worry yet. Teammates had been lingering at the rink when I left, so there was a good chance that I’d get back before the doors closed. I got off at 125th Street, caught an uptown train immediately, and one stop later, was running up the stairs and down the block to the rink door. Locked. The girls were gone and the door was shut tight, no matter how loud I banged. I’d spent months coming up to the Bronx for practice and had grown comfortable in the area, however seedy. But standing alone on the dark corner, in a short skirt in the summer heat, I started to get nervous. I headed back to the subway, on to plan B.
There was an extra set of keys in my office at work, or there used to be. I’d switched offices and couldn’t remember if I’d brought the set into the new space. Or if I’d given them to my ex-boyfriend. I prayed I’d find them hanging on my bulletin board, like they used to, and decided to go to plan C in the meantime. I called the teammates who’d left the rink last, leaving messages asking if they’d seen my keys and picked them up. It was likely, maybe. I headed downtown, to the west side. I ran into one of the derby girls on the way there, and told her the story so far, trying not to panic. “They’ll be there,” she said. “Don’t worry.” I took a deep breath and tried not to. I didn’t want to go to plan D.
We left the subway into pouring rain and no umbrellas. Our skirts plastered against our legs and my sandals rubbed layers of skin off my toes and ankle. I said goodbye to my friend as I picked up the call from my teammate - no one had found my keys. Another window shut. I felt the panic rising and ran the three blocks to my office building as best I could on torn-up feet and wet cobblestones.
The lights were on; at least that was a relief. But the doors were locked and when I banged on the glass, the workers painting the lobby just shrugged at me and turned back to their brushes. The panic built until I heard the crackle of the intercom; the guard I hadn’t seen hidden behind the desk, asking me what I was doing. He buzzed me in and gave me a lecture about procedure until he heard the desperation in my voice. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I have to get upstairs. I’m having a really terrible day.” He let me go, gentler now. I fought back tears in the elevator to the fifth floor. I had to get my keys; I had to pack; I had to get so much work done tomorrow so that I could get on a bus to Boston and a plane to Boulder with nothing hanging over my head; I had to avoid plan D. It wasn’t about the keys anymore; it was about no control over anything. It was about obstacles and the loss of autonomy and nothing working out right, ever. I was tired of fighting. The elevator doors dinged open.
No keys were hanging on my office bulletin board, but I was desperately hopeful. I needed them to be there. I found two keys in my top desk drawer, and though they didn’t look like house keys, they also didn’t fit any lock in my office, so I clung to the slim chance that they were what they did not seem. I grabbed a dry sweatshirt and headed back out into the rain, hailing a cab to get home as quickly as possible. I justified the cost as money well spent if I could keep my equilibrium. Or some small shred of it. The cab pulled up to my front door and I asked the driver to wait.
I ran up to the door and tried the first key. A mismatch, no luck. The second key didn’t go in either, but I tried them both again and again, hoping my need would turn the lock. I ran back into the cab, trying to decide what to do next. Go to Jay’s house in Park Slope, where I could shower and sleep and calm down? But I needed to pack, I needed to travel. I needed into my apartment. Plans had been made, people relying on me to do things, and the rain was still coming down and my options were dwindling.
I didn’t want to, but I had to. It was the easiest solution, in a way. I went to plan D and called my ex, the one who still had my keys. The keys that should’ve been hanging in my office, for battles like this. I got his voicemail as a second call came in; I tried to pick it up, but ended up leaving babbling nonsense on his voicemail instead. Humiliation added to humiliation. I called back and gave him the details; I was locked out, I needed the key, call me. He never picked up. I hadn’t expected him to. Humiliation for nothing.
One more last-ditch attempt. The upstairs neighbors buzzed me into the building and let me climb out their fire escape. They even leant me a flat-head screwdriver to try and pry the window open. I spent twenty minutes doing my best, but I’d performed this trick a few months before (shutting the door behind me before I realized the house key was still inside), and had bulked up security. The window was locked. The rain was pounding. Jay said come over, I could deal with it tomorrow. All the plans, all the good intentions, all the things I wanted to do. There was no time now. I climbed up the fire escape and walked back out to the street, to the subway, to my friends’ house. Plan F.
It took an hour to get there, three hours after I left the skate rink the second time. After midnight. Jay and Jeff were up watching TV, and they gave me a hot shower and an inflatable bed and a little perspective. I would get my keys at some point during the day (I’d gotten a call on my way over; the rink manager would be there to open the door), and go home and pack after work. I would change my bus ticket, leave early the next morning. It should be enough time to get to the airport, if nothing else goes wrong. I’d get as much done in the office as I could (though nowhere what I needed to get done, what I should’ve finished, and that was impossible to feel good about). It would be okay.
I knew it would from the start, but I’m tired of the fight.
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