Nobody Reads This Page – “Lockout”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

Note to Readers: This is a true tale from Thompson, Ohio, in 2002.

 

When I first moved to my rural home at the northeastern corner of Geauga County, it was an event that came out of desperation. I had reached a rocky point in my first marriage, and was determined to avoid any collateral damage to my career as a retail business manager. After spending several weeks on my sister’s couch, any spot where I could land had an irresistible appeal. So despite having a typically negative opinion of living in a manufactured home, I accepted the thought out of necessity.

 

A friend from my store in Chardon spoke about living at an address far from the bustle and congestion of more populated neighborhoods in our area. Her description made it sound like a pastoral community where one could exist peacefully, without too many rules or regulations. I chafed at the thought of being in a trailer, yet wished fervently for anywhere to lay my head. With the shame of being in exile weighing heavily, I plunked down a deposit during the summer, and signed paperwork in July.

 

Other than my friend on a back street in the park, who I rarely saw, I did not know anyone on the property. Long hours at work meant that I spent very little time at my new residence. Therefore, it didn’t seem to matter too much. I came and went anonymously, to the point where those next door, on one side and the other, would later confess that they thought the prefabricated dwelling was unoccupied in literal terms.

 

They guessed that it must have been a sham used by some nefarious character. A front for activities of a scandalous nature. I stayed at home only long enough to drink myself to sleep at night, and then to shower and shave before reporting for duty, once again. It was not uncommon to arrive in my distant township around the hour of two o’clock in the morning, after work. I would be exhausted, and ready to relax. Thirsty, sweaty, and in no mood for human companionship.

 

On a particularly mellow night late in the season, I rolled into the narrow driveway with a 12-pack of beer and a bag of edible goodies on the seat of my pickup truck. The moon was bright overhead, and welcoming sounds of nature beckoned as I exited the vehicle. I unloaded my snacks and beverages with anticipation making me eager to sit outside on the fiberglass steps, and soak up the slumbering vibes. But carelessness caused a detour from this plan. The door went shut with my keys still in the ignition. I stood in the yard for a moment, pondering the situation with disbelief. It seemed likely that I was mistaken about being locked out of my home. That reality made my temples ache. I yawned and rummaged through my pockets, walked around the 4x4 beast, and found myself once again at a point of complete befuddlement.

 

Four-letter words echoed off of the vinyl siding. I needed a drink to calm my nerves.

 

After four or five brews, I my blood pressure had deflated enough to permit more rational thinking. I sat on the edge of my inset porch and griped softly to myself. Anger over being marooned had no benefit, especially as the hour was ridiculously late, and I knew none of my neighbors. I tried to mentally work my way through a series of options, which included breaking a window, attacking the front door with a crowbar, or calling AAA for help with opening my truck.

 

None of these choices were appealing. The yield of this exercise was to convince myself that I had become stuck in a conundrum that had the complexity of a spider’s web. One from which I would not be able to escape, gracefully.

 

While finishing the dozen bottles of alcohol, I happened to spy my trash barrel in its place by an Amish storage barn I had purchased. The crude shed was made of Canadian lumber, pre-cut to specification. It had been assembled skillfully by a team of workers driven to the site in an oversized, Dodge van.

 

I realized that the rubbish bin was roughly equal in height to a small, kitchen window situated at the back of my square porch. A test with numb fingers confirmed that it wasn’t locked. I popped out the screen, and managed to slide this glass portal upward, while grunting and swearing. Perspiration stung my eyes. I was huffing for breath by the time I had accomplished this task. But the idea worked.

 

A sober individual might have failed to rectify this moment of embarrassment successfully. Yet in my haze of fatigue and inebriation, pieces of the puzzle fell into place. I mounted the garbage receptacle like straddling a horse, bareback. Then, worked my way through the confined space over a sink inside of the trailer. Only the vertical faucet impeded my entry. I managed to slip and slide over this plumbing fixture without adding extra damages to the total. Upon reaching the countertop inside, I fell forward onto the linoleum. My plop shook the whole house. But with no witnesses present, this detail went unnoticed.

 

A spare key was hanging by the front entrance. I went back to the driveway, unlocked my truck, and spat on the ground in a rude celebration of victory.

 

“HOW ABOUT THAT, DAMMIT? A COUNTRY BOY CAN SURVIVE!”

 

I fell into bed once this chore was accomplished, still wearing my dress clothes from work. My shoes were kicked into a corner. A patterned necktie had been abandoned on the mirror of my roadgoing mule. Moonlight streamed through the front window, which had no curtains. Only a thin blanket on the supporting rod kept me from being exposed to the entire community. But I was too spent to care. Necessity had driven me to break into my own home. As a thief in the night, I had battled the forces of futility, and won.

 

Now, it was time to sleep.