My cell phone rang at 1:38 A. M. A roommate (aka: offspring) was unable to gain entry to my house. The dead bolt would not budge. Knowing I could not get out of my house through the front door caused a tiny bit of a minute panic. I’ve never panicked when unable to gain entry (i. e. when forgetting your house key), but not being able to exit was a new experience.
Once I knew I could not use my front door, I didn’t care about my back door. I only wanted what I couldn’t have.
My household slept on it. A touch after dawn (two nightmares later of being locked inside a burning house) I woke to the sound of my houseguest (aka: Womanwhoswingsahammer) making departure noises at the front door. If only The. Front. Door. Would Open. I got out my toolbox (two hammers, three screwdrivers and a wrench). The deadbolt would not budge. She and I could slide screwdrivers back and forth to each other through the lockhole. We could crouch down and laugh at each other through the slot, but we could not get the deadbolt to budge. We’d make bad crooks, huh.
And so some time passed. And some language, mostly laughing language, passed. Eventually we figured out we had tried to move the door in every direction but one. With two flat screwdrivers acting as wedges and a pipe wrench acting as pliers, the deadbolt was extracted. Surgeons we are not. House robbers we are not. But happy campers we became.
We were so busy congratulating ourselves on being able to fix the deadbolt that only after Shewhoswingsahammer left for the rest of her road trip did I take this last photo, realizing we had almost done a good job.