Keys

Richard
Keys
Starbucks, January 7, 2009

It was only when I arrived at the back of our apartment complex and I was looking for the key to unlock the gate that I realized I’d taken the wrong bunch. That didn’t stop me trying keys I knew wouldn’t work. I was a little self-conscious, as three of my neighbors had oddly set up beach chairs in the parking lot and were watching me fumble.

I could see them out of the corner of my eye, arranged in a row, as if waiting for a concert in a park, a family: parents in their late fifties and a daughter who looked twenty-five. They wore t-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, and the man was drinking from a can. “You have to reach through and try the key from the other side,” he called out.

I’d seen him the day before, pushing a supermarket cart to the gate when Laurie and I were returning home. He hoisted up his twelve-pack of beer and asked us to hold the door open for him. When he’d passed through, we’d quietly shared our disapproval of his abandoning the cart. He said something to us, but his speech was a little slurred. Today his voice was clear. “Try the key from the other side,” he repeated. I knew it was futile, but I picked another key from the loop and made a show of trying it in the lock. “I have the wrong keys,” I shouted back. “I’ll have to go home and get the right one.”

He said something to his daughter, smiling. She walked over, putting her hand in the pocket of her candy striped shorts. “I’ll try my key.” The path was narrow. I could smell that she smoked. As she tried her key, I could see into her cleavage and the lace edge of her bra. Her key didn’t work either.

The man again. “Reach through. Try it from the other side. The lock’s busted.”

I was feeling trapped by their helpfulness or was it the part of me that simply cannot, ever, behave in a way that could be construed as impolite? A car drove toward the automatic gate around the corner. As the gate began its slow-motion parting, the mother said, “Run. You can get out now if you’re quick.” I don’t run. It’s a public thing, eyes on me, die of embarrassment, like the time in Blackpool, when we were sitting in a row in Stanley Park just like this family and my father reached under his seat and felt the token there and knew that the magician performing on stage was going to call him up front and instead of enduring the surpassing horror of that experience got us all on our feet—my mother, brother, sister, and me—and marched us off as the magician jeered at the cowardly spoilsport slinking away. Dad was trapped in either choice. “I don’t think so,” I said weakly.

The daughter said, “Why don’t you push on it while I try the lock.” I felt I had to follow her suggestion, and as I leaned in, her body brushed against my side, enjoyable, unwelcome.

The man got up, placed his can beside his chair, and walked over. “Let me try.” There were small scratches and bruises on his ruddy face. He’s been in a fight, I thought, or maybe fallen down drunk. What did I want so badly to escape from? The way he exposed his life for all to see or was it my fascination with his freedom? “Thanks, thanks,” I said.

He took the daughter’s key, reached through the gate, inserted it into the lock on the other side, and pressed his shoulder against the railing. It swung open, and he smiled.

“Thank you so much,” I said, “I’ll leave it open so I can get back in later.”

The daughter stepped through and picked up a large rock that was next to the wall. “I’ll prop it open with this.”

“Going to the store?” The man asked.

“To the coffee shop.”

“Don’t worry about the gate. We’ll still be here when you get back. How long are you going to be?”

I thanked him but didn’t say a time. I wished I hadn’t mixed up the keys, wished I’d driven. All the way to the coffee shop, I nursed my resentment for his help.