I’ve never lived in a condo building. If I think too hard about it it’s a little prison like with all the keys and the assigned spaces and the everyone eerily close.
We manage to lock ourselves out. It was 9am on a Saturday and we swung the door shut behind us as we carried the laundry out. We unload. Quarters in the machine, push to start. We walk back upstairs to find our door completely locked.
Mark is pretty upset about this. I’m laughing. Everything is inside, keys, wallet, everything. It’s too funny to be real. Naturally Mark starts looking for a solution. I’ll climb the balcony, he says. Ludicrous, right? But I say go ahead. Turns out that’s not the best thing to do in a condo building.
We cant remember which member of the association lives in which unit. Not to worry, I say, so we start knocking on doors. Random doors. Maybe someone can point us in the right direction.
No answer by anyone, so we walk downstairs and see someone by the pool. He points to the unit he thinks the association member is in, and we go back up.
I knock once. No answer. A few seconds later, I bang on the door, and a sleepy looking fellow comes to the door and gives us a look. Good morning! I say cheerfully. Mark chimes in, we locked ourselves out.
The man gives us a compassionate smile and walks upstairs with our second key. Right before he opens the door, he says, let’s hope this works!
He hesitates, as if to build suspense. Suspense builds.
He puts the key in and the door opens without any resistance.
A word: just because you open the doorknob with a key doesn’t mean the doorknob is unlocked.