Locks
Every once in a while, my secret lock picking skills come in handy.
So here’s the situation. I’m unpacking my new Christmas gift to myself when I hear a tiny knocking on my door. Aww crap, I’m being loud!
So I open the door and there’s a girl my age asking in a tiny timid voice if I know the landlord’s phone number and if I possibly have a phone she could borrow. It seems she was doing her laundry and her apartment door locked behind her. I’ve been really paranoid about the exact same thing. I probably look like a spaz every time I open my door as I pat myself down just double and triple checking that I have my keys on me.
Now the following is what ran through my head:
Where are my lock picks? Oh wait, this is a girl and she doesn’t know me. What’s the landlord’s name? Oh yea, Karl.. Okay here it is in my cell…
And then I gave my phone to her and went back to unpacking my airplane parts. And then she says there’s no answer and gets all worried.
Do I just open her door for her or go find the phone book and point her at a locksmith? Fuck that, a locksmith would drill her locks out, and at this hour would cost a fortune. And it’s christmas time. “You may have contacted the right guy…”
“What do you mean?”
“I used to practice picking locks.” As I smile holding up a small black package full of thin metal tools. Yes, I carry them on me.
“Um.. That’s.. a little creepy..”
“Yea I know, where are you at?”
And then I follow her downstairs, whip out my junk (A torsion wrench and rake) and get to work. A couple seconds later the door opens. “Oh thank gawd 
“
You’re welcome! no.. Don’t thank God, just thank God you have me! no.. Actually it’s Alex! no.. “Oh no problem, have a good night “
Now I’m stuck wondering what she’s thinking. And after discussing it with another lady friend, we’ve determined that she’s probably creeped out that there’s a strange new guy in the building who actually has lock picks and apparently knows how to use them. And after a week of having my bro and some colleagues over there’s a dozen empty beer bottles on my counter. So I’m probably a drunk, too.
Am I being pessimistic or paranoid?
Update: I went and spoke to her. Y’know, just to make sure she didn’t think I was some psycho criminal sneaking about at night going into peoples homes and stealing stuff. I even showed her my big knife, to emphasize the humor. So we’re cool. I’m not a psycho.
