Imprisoned in Pajamas

We all have traumatic moments in life that we would like to forget. While most have to do with a rough upbringing and others have to do with failed relationships, mine occurred last August when I got stuck on my first floor porch.

Now, please don’t make assumptions and please don’t judge. Getting stuck on ones porch takes talent, finesse, and precise timing. It all started when I stepped outside my apartment with a cold glass of water to enjoy the beautiful Florida daytime. This is where the trouble started. I grabbed the doorknob to go back in and was faced with a harsh reality: doorknobs are not supposed to turn three hundred sixty degrees. The doorknob was definitely broken, and I was definitely stuck outside.

As I sipped my water I became aware of my vicious bed-head and current attire, pajamas, which ruled out seeking help from any people. They were likely to think that I was homeless and looking for money. Since I live on the first floor of my apartment building I knew that climbing over the porch wall and walking around to the front door was the best option. However, I had made the mistake of thinking that going outside barefoot was a good idea and the flowerbeds surrounding my porch were full of fresh mulch, which now resembled a field full of razor blades. As I gently lowered myself down onto the miniature spears, tears came to my eyes but I persisted and made it to the front door. As fortune would have it, I made yet another oversight and realized that even though I had made it to the door, and freedom was just on the other side, the house keys were inside. Thankfully, I remembered that even if I did have the keys, my chain lock was still going to hold me at bay.

Defeated, I traversed the field of razors yet again and climbed back into my cell. Even though there were no keys to be found in my pajama pocket, there was a cell phone. I was able to locate the number for my apartment complex in the contacts list and gave them a dial. To my horror, they had recently closed for the day and thus I was transferred to the emergency service line where a young lady who barely spoke any English but was ready to help me out with my emergency needs. I had to explain to her that I was stuck on my porch. She had trouble understanding the concept and informed me that there was a fifty-dollar fee for getting locked out after business hours. I had to clarify that I hadn’t technically been locked out and it was the doors fault over my own. I told her that I was stuck on the porch in my pajamas with no shoes, no keys, and half a glass of water. She failed to see the humor in the situation and informed me that someone would be along in roughly forty-five minutes to let me in. I could deal with that. The temperature was slowly rising in the late afternoon sun and the water began to taunt me. I knew that even though I would soon be free, I had to ration.

Forty-five minutes went by with no rescue to speak of. I once again dialed the emergency service line. The same gal answered and didn’t show any sympathy towards my situation. She assured me that help was on the way. I assured her that I was going to eat my hand if no one arrived soon. Finally, four hours later when I had nearly lost all hope of salvation, the maintenance guy appeared to let me inside. He unlocked the door and had to pulverize the chain lock with a screwdriver. As I hobbled towards the door, my feet nearly bleeding from another trip through the razors, he put out a hand to stop me. He says, “I’m sorry Sir, our policy states that I can’t let you inside the apartment until I see your I.D.”