mizChartreuse || redefiningSuccess

I dropped off my deposit, left the building and walked toward the bus stop. Working there is easy, but getting there was a pain in the ass! The designated parking area for employees is over a mile from the stadium, and you have to pay up to $15 and take a shuttle just to get to the entrance gates. Pay to go to work? No thanks. I park my car somewhere along Roosevelt near UIC and take the 12 all the way down to McFetridge Lane, and it stops right in front of the stadium.

As I approached my car, a bum-looking man in a white t-shirt and an overexaggerated swagger started talking to me. I quickened my pace and took my keys out of my purse, ready to unlock the passenger’s side door.

So I went to unlock the vehicle as the bum was babbling. The alarm disabled. My key turned all the way around. And around, and around and around. And the lock wasn’t going up. Hm, I thought, as the bum continued on his way and told me to have a good night and God bless.

I sat down on the conveniently raised curb on a curb and twirled my key around. And then I stared at the door, with all four locks down, stubbornly, securely in place. Doing their job. Doing what I told them to do. I twirled the key five more times.

I stared some more. It was the typical reaction one gives when they realize they’ve been locked out of their car/home/wherever. You stare at the door, as though staring at it will magically cause whatever is closed to open. This is corroborated by Augusten Burroughs in the book I’m reading. I wished for a few fleeting moments that I was Matilda from Roald Dahl’s book. She could move things with her mind. Sadly, my brain-powered-energy-channeling wasn’t quite up to par yet.

There is never a time when you feel more alone than when you’re locked out of your car and don’t know who to call. That’s another thing I hate about the suburbs. They have almost all of my friends. And the ones who do live in the city were either a) in the suburbs, b) probably asleep after returning from a vacation, c) hanging out and having drinks around town, or d) sleeping because it was Sunday night and it was back to work in the morning.

I started going through a possible list of people that weren’t in any of the above categories. It was then that I started feeling sorry, instead of glad, that I had recently downsized on my “circle of trust.” Where was Batman when I needed him? I wasn’t that far from his penthouse, right?

After feeling sorry for myself and alone came the anger.

The five stages of being locked out are:

Shock
Denial
Derelictness
Anger
Acceptance

Once you reach the acceptance stage, you start taking actual action instead of mentally berating yourself for being so stupid as to lock your doors. Usually, such self-condemnations begin with curses. Fuck, why didn’t I leave the window cracked? Last week the back window was open a half inch for three days! Or Damn, why did I turn the key so hard? If that bum hadn’t been talking to me I wouldn’t have twisted the lock so ardently. Or Shit, I should have known that the other lock was going to blow out. Why didn’t I foresee the future?

Futile.

Getting over it and finding this situation to be more comical and typical of my life, I flipped out my phone and wrote: “Hypothetically, what would you do if not one but both the locks on your pos car’s doors just stopped working and your car was parked about 4 miles from home?” I sent it to Jaley, Natalie, Shane, and Angelique, all of whom I knew probably couldn’t physically help me (because they fit into one of the above categories), but could maybe give me some sound advice. I also sent it to one of my roommates and a couple others who never responded (thanks, guys!).

“pos?” Jaley asked.

“oh, sorry, piece of shit. ”

Natalie asked if this was real. Yes, yes, it was. “So can you not get in/lock it or are you worried about it getting stolen?” Pathetically, the former. And I had the fucking key in my hand!

“Call the police to jimmy it,” was Jaley’s suggestion.

“You can call AAA or a tow company to try to jimmy the lock. Or try going through the trunk. Or breaking a small window in the back. Or if you see a cop ask him for help. Or get a boat hangar/thin stiff object to wedge in the window and pull the knob/push the unlock button,” Natalie told me.

Shane called me. I told him. He immediately started looking up ways to break into a car.

After the responses, I didn’t feel so alone. I just didn’t know what to do; all I had was my “saddlebag” purse with a bunch of useless objects and my Augusten Burroughs memoir. I twirled the locks on both sides multiple times.

The locks came out in my hands.

Car door locks aren’t supposed to come out of a car. Sure, it was 11 years old. But that’s no excuse. What happened to fantastic German engineering, huh, Volkswagen? These little metal pieces aren’t supposed to be crumbling in my hand. I’m not supposed to be able to take out these little teeth-looking bits. This rubber ring thing isn’t supposed to peel off.

I called 311. “City of Chicago,” the voice answered. I was familiar with the voice. This was the voice I called whenever my car was towed and I had to locate it.

“I’m locked out of my car but I have my keys but the locks are broken can someone help?”

She transferred me to non-emergency police.

“Non-emergency police, this is Miss Jackson.”

I resisted the very strong urge to say, “Forever? Forever-ever? Forever-ever?” This woman could be my savior and I didn’t want to blow it.

“I’m locked out of my car but I have my keys but the locks are broken can someone help?” I said again.

“Wait, what’s that? You’re locked out? Are you in a safe place?”

Her comforting tone almost made my lip quiver, voice waver, and a tear form on the surface of my contact. She had a voice that I could hear saying, “Oh, sweet, honey chile. Come rest yo’ head on mama’s bosom, mama knows.”

But she didn’t, and I didn’t.

And then Miss Jackson said, “Well, the police don’t do that anymore, I’m sorry. The Chicago police don’t open locked car doors,” she said again. “You can call a locksmith, or your insurance company, or…” I stopped listening, and remembered again why I hate the City of Chicago. They ticket you on the basis of lies, tow your car, make you buy ugly window stickers that never come off once a year, and make your chances of finding legal parking close to zero. They’re everywhere with their damn ticket pads at 7:02 a.m., but then when you need help, poof!

As I hung up, a new text came in. Andrea. “I come to u?”

“Yeah, can you? And maybe bring like a wire hanger or two I’m on roosevelt just before blue island”

“No problem, leaving here soon”

I spoke to Shane again. He had been watching some videos on Youtube demonstrating how to break into a car. He suggested using a ruler as one technique. Or, I could wedge a wooden doorstop in the top part of my door, pry it open, and insert something to reach the lock stub. By this point, I was considering using a rock on the windshield.

Quickly, before I did something rash in a fit of madness, I texted Andrea to ask if she could acquire a ruler and/or doorstop wherever she was.

In the meantime, I called my insurance company. Of course they weren’t open at 9:30 p.m. on a Sunday, but they didn’t even leave a phone number to call in case of an emergency. Good to know! I’m sorry, but after an accident, that “is NOT the time to wish I had [the number to my] insurance,” a la the Allstate commercials narrated by President David Palmer–I mean, Dennis Haybert.

I listened to the message twice, in both English and Spanish. As if listening to that was going to help me.

I dialed 1 800 Free 411, trying to keep the costs of this predicament as low as possible, and hoping I could maybe get in touch with the main insurance corporation instead of just the little office on Ashland Ave.

“What city and state? Or, you can say, ‘toll free,’” came the automated voice.

“Toll free,” I said.

“Excuse me?” She asked. I repeated myself. She asked again.

“Toll fucking free.”

“Okay, what listing?”

“American Service Insurance.”

“American Cancer Society?”

“American Service Insurance.”

“American Capital Strategies?”

“American Fucking Service Insurance.”

“American Founding?”

I hung up.

Then I remembered that T-Mobile has a roadside assistance service. I asked Shane to log into my account and see if it was part of the plan that reamed me every month ($60-80, even though I use, oh, 300 of my 1000 minutes a month plan, and I technically am on their lowest, $39.99/month [plus an unlimited text package]. How do they do that?).

While he searched, I “dialed 611 from my mobile phone,” and thankfully the fembot understood my request.

“Good evening, how may I help you?” Finally, a human being. I told him what was up. “Okay, I’d be glad to assist. What’s your mobile phone number? And first and last name?” After pronouncing and re-pronouncing my last name for him, the dispatcher put me on hold. “Sorry about the wait,” he said. “Are you in a safe place?”

“Uh, I guess. I mean, I have my trusty paperback and a pair of tweezers to fend off any deviants.”

“Haha, okay, well, we’re not showing that you have the roadside assistance package. We can do one of two things–call T-Mobile and have them and you on the line to show that you have it, or we can send someone out and just have it be a customer-cost service.”

“Well, if it’s not showing up, I probably don’t have it. How much would this customer-cost be?”

“Anywhere from $35-50.”

“Welp, my roommate’s coming with a ruler, so I’ll just wait this one out and call back if I need you. Kthxbye.”

Maybe I can just leave the car here tonight and come back tomorrow with someone if this doesn’t work out, I thought. But no, I need my computer out of the trunk. And my bowl’s in there. Too bad the lock on the trunk doesn’t work and I have to push the button inside the car to get it open. But what if I never get inside my car again? Maybe I should take everything out of my trunk in the event that that button stops working. But then again, it’s only crap in there that I’ve been hauling around the last five years.

At that moment, all I wanted to do was be inside my car, even though it probably smelled like a mixture of shoes and a Yankee Candle tangerine/cranberry air freshener. I walked to a nearby bench, read half a chapter of Possible Side Effects and waited for Andrea to call. She did as she pulled up with her girlfriend. Hopping out of the car with her cheery greeting, I knew everything would be a-okay.

“Hi love!” She and Heidi excitedly presented to me a cute, yellow 12-inch Barbie ruler. I smiled as I read along the bottom:

Within 20 seconds, I was in my car and on the way home after a round of hugs and cheers on the side of the road.

After calling the police, my cell phone provider, and Free 411, who would have ever guessed that Barbie would come to the rescue? Of course, thanks to my lovely roommate.