Holding Out for a Hero

I’m not sure what other people do when they get home from work, but the second I step into my home, I become a blur of activity that goes something like this: Put coat in closet. Pat cats on the heads and ask them if they had a good day (expect and appreciate no response). Dump leftover coffee in sink and rinse mug. Take off shoes. Take off jewelry. Feed cats. Turn on TV. Put work clothes away, shower, and put on jammies. Light candle or incense. Pour glass of wine. Prepare dinner. Plop down on coach and eat while watching something on the DVR.

Sometime after eating, I take care of chores so I don’t face doing all of them on the weekend. Not exciting, and no different than most single Americans without children.

But this evening, I was inspired by my coworker’s cleaning enthusiasm—she pulled out her fridge and vacuumed behind it. WELL! I should do that! I’m sure there’s a dust puppy living under mine.

To start fresh, I decided it was best to shake the dust out of the foam filter thing that goes in my vacuum. So I turned on the balcony light, opened the door, peeked outside (no one needs to see me whapping this thing on the railing in my pink tank top and pajama pants), and stepped outside. It was 9:30 at night and 40 degrees out. One of my cats was really excited about going on the balcony, so I quickly slid the door closed just enough that she couldn’t get out.

That’s when I heard an ominous sound behind me.

KA-TINK

I knew in a microsecond what that sound was, and I spun around faster than it took the synapses in my brain to complete the connection: The metal safety bar fell.

“NOOOO! Oh, shit, shit, shit…NOOOO!”

Like the hapless victim of a rear-end collision, I couldn’t accept the totality of my situation. This bar WILL MOVE.

My cats were standing in the doorway, open about 3 to 4 inches, their little arms reaching out to me and their faces full of concern—until I dropped the foamy filter thing in favor of a frantic effort to force the bar upward, or bend the bar—anything.

The bar was at a roughly 45-degree angle. This was promising. Not one cell in my body accepted that I had just trapped myself out on my own balcony in the dark in the cold in my skimpy top, jammy pants, and red Christmas footies.  

Like a hopeful primate, I looked around for a tool. Because the roof was replaced the day before, the only thing on my balcony was the top of my jack-o-lantern. Awesome.  

Holding the stem of the jack-o-lantern, I thought I could fling it into the downstairs neighbor’s window. Her light was on. Did I want to involve her? NO! She’s one of the most annoying humans I’ve ever met. She’s a naggy, nosy, know-it-all who thinks everyone else has noodles for brains. She talks to me like I’m 12, and in my current situation, I just wouldn’t have the patience for it. 

I continued to jerk on the door handle. I pulled it so hard, it went partially off the track. Suddenly I realized that with every pull, the metal safety bar went a little lower.  

I debated climbing down the balcony and jumping to the ground, but I was two stories up, and I’d still be locked out of both the condo building and my home. So I did what felt like the most alien thing I’ve ever done: I called for help. 

At first, my calls of “HELP!” were more of a suggestion.

As the cold started to hit me, “PLEASE, SOMEBODY, HELP ME!” became my plea.

Finally, I began to distress and yell into the darkness: “HELP ME! HELP! SOMEBODY, HELP ME!” I was panicking.  

The balcony light turned on for a neighboring condo on a street behind me. Thank GOD! Did they hear me? How could anyone NOT hear me?

A man in his late 50s stepped out on the balcony.

Him: Is everything alright?

Me: Thank God, you heard me! I’m stuck out on my balcony. The safety bar fell down, and I can’t get the door open.

He stood there silently for about 10 seconds. What was he thinking?

Him: Do you want me to call the police or fire department?

Me: Umm…yes. I think that’s best.

Him: What’s your address?

I told him, and he went inside to make the call. A minute later, he was down standing in the grass, and he threw me up a sweatshirt. I was beyond grateful. 

He returned to his balcony and stood outside so I wasn’t alone.   

After another 10 minutes, we saw a flashlight come through the trees, and a police officer came into view under my balcony. 

He smiled up at me in a way that I knew meant he was trying not to laugh. Stupid girl got herself shut out of her own condo at night on a balcony. How does that happen? And what is she wearing? A gigantic sweatshirt, pink pajama pants, and red…fluffy socks?  

Officer: Well, now you do live here, right? You aren’t actually trying to break into the place are you?

Inside voice: Yes, this is my break-and-enter, burglar outfit.

Me: Yes, I live here. (Shivering) If I were trying to break in and I got up here, I’d have made sure I could get back down.

He laughed, “Yes, I have to ask, to make sure...” 

We saw the fire truck drive by twice. I wasn’t surprised: In my little neighborhood, my street is a “court” next to a “lane” of the same name and near a “drive” also of the same name. This truly demonstrates the efficacy of our local government. Is it really possible to run out of numbers, landscapes, animals, and dead presidents all in one 4-block area?

Before a new street is named, several names for it are submitted and checked against an existing database of street names to make sure there are no duplications, names that rhyme near each other, or similar-sounding names because they can delay emergency response.  

REALLY? You don’t say! 

After the third drive by, the fire department finally located my street and several firefighters trekked around to the back of my building. 

I explained to them how it happened, told them countless times how embarrassing this was, and believe it or not, they said this wasn’t an uncommon thing (I think they were being kind).  

Then it began: The barrage of questions.

Guys: Did you try the other balcony door?

Me: Yes, it’s locked.

Inside voice: DUH! OF COURSE I DID!

Guys: Is your front door open?

Me: No. I locked the deadbolt.

Guys: Do you have your keys on you?

Me: No. They’re inside.

Guys: Can you call someone with another set of keys?

Me: No. My cell phone is on the coffee table.

Inside voice: Gee, why didn’t I think of that before screaming for help in the dark? And yes, why, here’s my cell phone! I holster it to my pajamas!

I had no one to call. I told them my family lives in Peoria, and I didn’t know by heart the number of the only person with a set of keys—the person I rent from. And I was pretty sure she was out of town for business anyway. 

Guys: Where does that side door go?

Me: My bedroom.

Guys: Did you try it, is it locked?

Me: Yes, but I’ll try it again…

Inside voice: …for the audience in the back.

Guys: And it’s locked?

Me: Yes, it’s locked.
 
Inside voice: Why no, it's open and I'm standing here anyway. What woman wouldn't keep a door going from outside to her bedroom locked?!  

Guys: What’s in that other door?

Me: Storage.

Guys: Is there a key in there?

Inside voice: Right. Who keeps a key to their side-bedroom door in their outside storage closet—in the event that they are ever locked out on their two-story balcony? 

Remember that annoying downstairs neighbor? NOW she makes an appearance.

Nag: I heard the banging, but…

Me: Yes, that was me trying to get the door open.

Inside voice: You stupid ass, you didn’t even come outside to see what was going on? The ONE TIME you mind your own business…

Then she starts in, “Why do you lock your balcony door? You’re on the second floor. I lock my door because I’m on the bottom…”

Me, at a whisper: The Devil himself wouldn’t want to go into your place. 

Her asinine questions continued:

Nag: Why do you lock your front door?

Inside voice: Because I’m a small, single woman who is very protective of her person, you idiot. There’s no way to answer a stupid question like “Why do you lock your front door,” so I didn’t.

Nag: Why don’t you keep an extra set of keys in your garage? I could get them for you. Or you can give me a set of keys, just in case…
Me: My garage door is locked! (Frustration)
 

Inside voice: Like I’d give you keys to my place? Are you kidding me? We aren’t friends!

Nag: What? Why do you lock your garage door?
Me: I have things in there that I don't want stolen.

Inside voice: Because I’d prefer that if someone were to steal my things, it were not as easy for them as an open-door invitation, dumbass.

Nag: Why don’t you have your cell phone with you?

Me: I was stepping outside for 30 seconds! Why would I need my phone? 

Nag: Why did you put the bar down?

She asked this question intermittently countless times. I considered flinging the top of the jack-o-lantern at her, but, well, there was a cop right there and… 

It was all I could do not to yell at her that IF THE BAR were down, I wouldn’t be ABLE to go out the balcony door in the FIRST PLACE! Use your brain! I didn’t put the bar down BEHIND myself for God’s sake! 

She asked many more questions, rambling about what she does or what she would do. I finally sternly told her to go back inside and let the firefighters do their job.

I realize it’s highly unlikely that, short of Spiderman himself, I’ll ever have an intruder in my second-story condo. I also realize that, lightest-sleeper-in-the-world that I am, said Intruder will be the more likely victim because I have a gun within seconds’ reach of my bed (compliments of my protective father and The Second Amendment). Finally, said Intruder would likely take one look at my sad, little box TV (oh, DO stop criticizing) and fling himself off the balcony quite willingly. All that aside, no one wants to be The Dumb Girl killed by some new Ted Bundy because she doesn’t lock her doors.  

Incidentally, I asked the police officer if I shouldn’t lock the deadbolt and such, just because there was a primary security door into the building. He said that I should absolutely lock the deadbolt to my front door. Good. We’re done with that issue. 

Nosy neighbor gone, the firefighters resumed their own questioning. One of them suggested breaking a window, and suddenly, the game completely changed. They were all about breaking something. Men, is it just not fun unless something or someone gets destroyed? 

Was there anything on the balcony I could use to break a window?

I held up the jack-o-lantern top and said, “No.”  

Was there anything in the storage closet I could use to break a window? My golf clubs.

I asked if they could just take off the lock or something, but apparently the “or something” would be breaking down my front door. Eesh. Really? Let’s not do that. 

They were all about breaking down the door, breaking windows, breaking, breaking, breaking—destroy everything! I felt panic well up inside me again, and I went into my calm, talk-the-suicide-off-the-ledge voice. 

I told them the bar wasn’t down all the way. In fact, it was at a very agreeable angle. I suggested that there was probably a way to move the bar without destroying property. This piqued their interest and along came a ladder and a bag of jimmies.  

Before long, four firefighters and a police officer were on my balcony. In about a minute, one of them jimmied the bar over like the miracle I prophesized and, VOILA, the sliding door could be opened…sort of…one of the firefighters kindly put the door back on the track.  

The police officer asked for my name and phone number—which I told him after I confirmed I wasn’t being printed up in the newspaper the next day or something.  

They finally asked if they could leave through the front door instead of descend the ladder. Of course, though I hadn’t thought of that. I wasn’t particularly excited about them coming into my home in a mid-cleaning state, but then again, I was standing there in red footies… judgment had already been passed. 

I thanked my heroes profusely (despite the massive amounts of mud they tracked across my carpet), and LOCKED the deadbolt again (which I will continue to do). I also thanked myself for not lighting any incense that evening (can you imagine what the police officer would have thought?).  

The next day when I told my mom my saga, after she finished laughing so hard she damn near peed herself, she got quite serious and asked if I "asked any of them for their phone numbers." I was then chided for still not making myself little contact cards she wanted me to carry—like business cards—for handing out to guys I happen upon whilst going about my day. I’m not kidding. 

My poor mother desperately wants to see her older daughter remarry, and who better for her daughter than an official hero? Ok, so she may say a handsome bazillionaire is way better, but a hero—who can argue with that?  

Mom was absolutely aghast and utterly disappointed that I didn’t put myself out there on this one-and-only occasion that I would safely have five men all to myself in my house at one time. I defended myself by reaffirming that I was not my cutest self—I was lucky I was wearing a bra (Yes, ladies, I know you were wondering. You may all finally exhale.). Under the circumstances, not one of those men would think “Hey, she’s a looker…I dig the red footies.”  

There’s got to be a reason for all the fairytales of rescued damsels in distress, but let me tell you, this would NOT be how I’d write my story. I’d at least have made sure I was wearing makeup and anything but pink pajama pants and a ginormous blue sweatshirt, for Heaven’s sake.  

And I’d have thought to take their picture so I could commemorate them in my blog. J 

After the muddy footprints were scrubbed away, I noted to myself some important things to remember:

1. Keep locking the deadbolt.

2. Securely tape up the balcony door's loose safety bar.

3. When God puts five heroes on your balcony and one of them asks for your name and number, ask for his in return. Sorry, Mom!

4. There's no way to plan for a good story.

5. Always wear a bra.