Once every four to six months, I do something really stupid. It’s not life and death stupid, more like “I just ruined the rest of my day” stupid. I’ll leave my car on, forget concert tickets at home, or leave town without my wallet. There was also the incident with the busted water pipe in the parking garage, but I’d rather not talk about it. Suffice it to say, I screw myself over two or three times a year.
This past Memorial Day was the occasion for one of these semi-annual brain leaks. I went to the office to work on a book. Because of the holiday, I wouldn’t be seeing clients and the building would be empty and quiet. That last part becomes really important in just a second. I came to the office in casual clothes, got comfy on the couch with my laptop, and took my shoes off (remember that part, too). I also removed my keys, watch, wedding ring, and wallet, which is my habit when I hunker down to write.
After about an hour, nature called. Deep in a literary trance, I hopped off the sofa, grabbed the key for the men’s restroom, and walked out the door. When it slammed shut behind me, I got a surge of adrenaline. Two seconds later, I realized that this was one of my stupid days. I hadn’t unlocked the front door to the suite when I arrived, mainly because I never unlock the front door. My partner Rick always unlocks it because he comes to work so early you’d think he had cows to milk. I tried the door even though I knew it was futile. The knob was immobile and the door wouldn’t budge. I would have had more luck trying to play dominoes with Stonehenge.
I threw a fit in the empty hallway. It started as whining, but escalated to panic as I remembered some important facts. (1) Nobody was in the building, including the manager or anybody else with a set of keys. (2) I didn’t have my wallet or a cent on me. (3) I didn’t have my cell phone. (4) I didn’t have my keys, which included not just my office key, but my car keys, my house key, and the key card to the garage where my car was parked. (5) Finally, the humiliating coup de gras—I had no shoes. And the socks I’d chosen that morning weren’t exactly a pair I wanted to show off.
I canvassed the building looking for help. I followed vague noises down long hallways—the sort that lead to trouble in horror movies—hoping to find another human being. The building was vacant. I took the elevator down to the lobby and considered my options.
After a few minutes of pacing and fretting, someone came into the lobby. It was the building superintendent! He strolled in wearing street clothes and his perpetual good-natured grin. I walked up to him chuckling with relief. We’d have a good a laugh about this and then he would let me back into the office.
After I explained my situation to him he said, “Sorry, I don’t have my keys.”
Now that was just cruel.
Harried and hopeless, I accepted my fate. I walked out of the building in my unshod feet.
I know where you think this is going. You think I’m going to tell you that I figured out what it was like to be homeless. I’ll tell you that I realized how dependent I’d become on things I take for granted, like a cell phone and a car. Though these thoughts crossed my mind, I was nowhere near destitute or desperate. My situation was not severe enough to give me real empathy for someone who’s impoverished and alone. I still had a lot of options. I could call a cab from a payphone and pay him once I got home. I never worried about my next meal or where I was going to sleep. This isn’t a story about realizing how blessed I am; this is a story about how easy grace can be.
