textism: Going Out

Going Out · 3 December 02

The dog has been staring for a good hour, something he commences every day at 7:14 AM and works hard at, an inch or two from my face, until my eyes remain open and I roll out of bed to take him down the ladder, into a collar, and out in the world to unclench.

On this morning I also need to unclench with some urgency. It’s not as bad as some days – when you wake up from fever dreams of speedboating across clear lakewaters with a terry towel in your mouth and a boiling vat of kerosene in your lap – no, it’s not as bad as it can be, but as I say there is some urgency. I groan and creak and it’s on with the clothes, the socks and shoes, down the steps and past the kitchen. Every day at this exact point there’s a debate: put coffee on the stove now so it’ll be ready upon return, or deal with the bodily functions and fuss over breakfast later. I put on the coffee.

There’s an entranceway. About four metres square, just a sort of anteroom between the living room and the outside world. On two of its walls are hung coats and hats and collars and leashes; on the third is the big, heavy front door; on the fourth is the door to the toilet, right beside the door to the living room, which is the only thing that lays between all of these and a very bouncy eager dog and a groggy man who has to pee with, as I say, some urgency.

I try the door handle and, instead of the usual resistance one gets after turning it 45° or so, indicating the latch has cleared and the door can be opened, it just keeps going. I turn it the other direction, a full three sixty. The lock, which had been acting flaky, is now quite broken; the door is essentially deadbolted from within.

Pause. Stare. Try again. Pause. Oh man. Options.

Kicking it goes nowhere. Screwdrivers, then. Off comes the doorhandle – all right Oliver just a minute – and I hear the handle on the other side clank to the floor. No access to the mechanism of the lock, not that I’d know what to do with such access. Probing and digging with screwdrivers and pliers goes nowhere. Just a fucking second Oliver. No amount of hammer violence will loosen the hinge pins. On the stove, the milk boils over.

I have visions of smashing through frosted glass, of axes splintering wood, of befouled houseplants and inappropriate use of the kitchen sink. I’m actually standing bent at the waist with half-crossed legs. Like in the movies.

At last, at the bottom of the toolbox, I find a couple of wood chisels. I decide without conviction that such a door will be easy to repair, just a matter of patching on some laminate really (this sounds good at the time). I apply the tip of the chisel where I estimate the top of the lock mechanism to be and whack it with a hammer. A chunk of laminate the size of my palm comes flying off and click the lock opens and the door swings gently open. A flurry of activity ensues.

Later in the day I’m trying to convey my needs to a hardware clerk, who has no problem selling me a new lock mechanism but can’t quite grasp why chisels and hammers were involved: all I needed to do was slip a credit card between the door and the frame. Like in the movies.

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