I am inside-out

Next thing I knew the front door of the apartment building was locking, *click*, behind me. Shit. That can’t be good. Then the horrifying realization: I’m naked. Naked, locked out, in a town I’ve never been in, on the same block as all the nightlife, with all kinds of people milling around and frequent cops about keeping an eye for an eye on things. I need some space to think.

That’s when I saw the fire escape. I leaped up to the suspended ladder, pushing off the nearby wall, pulled myself up to the first floor and hunkered down in the darkest corner I could find amongst the street lights to ponder my naval lint (read: fate). I came to the realization that I was on the wrong fire escape, and needed to either 1) climb the other, much higher one around the back of the building or 2) break in through the front door. I’m still naked (so very naked), with nothing (so much nothing) around to help me. I needed tools.

There was a parking lot across the street. Maybe there’s something there. I climbed down, shivering in the almost-north east wind. I waited for a pause in the traffic at the corner before scurrying across the poorly-paved cross-street. I made it. Now to the hunt.

I started searching for something, anything, that might help me get that front door open. A piece of cardboard and a shiv-like scrap of metal later, I had pillaged all there was to pillage from that foresaken parking lot. I headed back towards the door; my new nemesis.

After about 45 minutes of fiddling with the lock, so very naked, so very cold, not at all shriveled - so goes my account - I decided it was time to start ringing people from the key pad. Because, for some reason, that hadn’t occurred to me yet.

Rang my friend’s apartment: no answer. Rang it again: nadda. A third time: diddly squat. Ok, let’s start from the top. Apartment 1: nope. Apartment 2: haters gonna hate. Apartments 3 through 5: jerks. Apartment 6: seriously? Apartment 7: … jackpot.

.Apartment 7 didn’t even answer, but he/she/it/they buzzed the door open. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. It was like walking out of the desert after 40 days and 40 nights with only unleavened bread to eat and flat diet caffeine free pepsi to drink. Like how a penguin feels in Antarctica holding an egg on his feet when the sun finally rises.

Clutching my piece of cardboard and shiv-like scrap of metal as a child might her last reeses pieces, I flung open the door. This was about the time I had a horrible realization: the door to the hallway is locked.

Fuck.

I sat down in one of the few chairs in the lobby to again ponder my fate (read: naval lint). I figured I didn’t have much to lose at this point, so I got up, rather slowly as I recall, and made my way to the hallway door - also slowly, as I recall, also cold, as I’d rather not recall. Let the fiddling commence.

I’ve jimmied open a few doors in my day, so it wasn’t a totally foreign concept. I started jimmying, as best I could, and it wasn’t long before I got the door open. Woo! First win of the night! Poor security, but win!

Made my way up the stairs to my friend’s girlfriend’s apartment door. Home sweet mother fucking home. *knock*

…

*knock knock*

…

*knock pound knock*

…

Shit.

*pound pound pound*

Fuck!

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a creature was stirring. Not a sound, not a slight movement, not a light wet-dream’s moan. Silence. This door’s dead bolted; I didn’t stand a chance. I needed more time to think.

So I went out the back door from the third floor hallway out onto the fire escape (the right one this time), propping the door open with my parking lot loot. Finally, some friggin’ privacy, in the dark of the rear fire escape three floors up. It was comparative heaven, and I was fully prepared to spend the night huddled, naked there. That’s when I noticed the window.

Oh hai, window. You’re over the kitchen sink, my potential-portal to safety. Four feet out from the fire escape, sure, but safety. 

I climbed up on a railing post of the fire escape’s stairwell. Now I’m perched on a four inch around pillar, three stories up, leaning over a deafening void, naked as the day I was born, braced as best I can be against the wall with my head against the window, pushing awkwardly in any direction but down to see if the window is open.

*fwoop* It’s open!

So I bend a little better; push a little more; stretch a little further. I got the window open far enough to scrape through. I’m still three stories up though, which, well, bummer.

Last shot. This window is all I have. I grabbed onto the window sill and swung off the stairwell post. For a moment I’m hanging, naked, three floors up with nothing but three flights of embarrassment between me and pavement. I scraped my way up, into the window, over the sink and into the apartment.

Cue the boys choir. No, wait, still naked; cue the angelic choir, no boys allowed.

I walked over to the couch I had been at least at one point sleeping on and looked over, only to find my clothes neatly folded in the corner. I had apparently very deliberately disrobed and left the apartment. For no reason whatsoever.

So there I was, still naked, standing over neatly folded pants and a blanket that looked like heaven. I clothed myself, wrapped myself up into that blanket as tightly as I could, and grabbed a few hours sleep before having to wake up and recant the horrors.

And that’s how babies are made.