Mind How You Go

Twenty-odd years ago my dad locked me I got locked out of the house. My dad and I had gone out for the lunchtime buffet at Godfathers and came back sated and happy. It was a hot, summer day. Scorching and humid, really. The kind of heat that blankets the land in a sad, oppressive stillness. He had to return to work, so he simply dropped me in the garage and went on his way. But—and this is key (haha)—the door that led from the garage into the house was locked. I wasn’t within walking or biking distance of Dad’s office or of a place I could wait for him to gather me. And for whatever reason I seemed to be the only person around in the neighborhood. I knocked on my fair share of doors that day, but for naught. I ended up spending the sweltering afternoon on the back patio. That event has informed every one of my days since. Now I always carry my keys on my person—even when I’m in the house. It’s a but loony, I grant you, but there are some fringe cases I’d rather be prepared for.