Locked Out

A few weeks ago I forgot my keys in the flat. My flatmate, Sondra, wasn't home and wasn't going to come home for awhile. I ended up going to a friend's to wait it out, but vowed to fix a spare set of keys inside our mailbox, so that I could avoid future incident.

Did I follow through?! No. Do I have anyone to blame but myself?! No.

So when I was on the bus tonight, rummaging though my bag to find my keys, I was fucking irritated to discover the lack of distinctive jangling at the bottom of my bag.

And once again, Sondra wasn't home and wasn't going to come home for awhile. I was lucky because the restaurant a meter from our building door--which had gone out of business for a couple months--reopened just yesterday. I called the waiter with a rather surly disposition and grumpily parked myself in the chair closest to our flat. I bitterly ordered a tea to wait for my housemate.

It dawned on me after awhile that she might not be coming home at all--her days off are now different from mine, and tonight (though Sunday) is the end of her workweek, so she might be going to party. What if I just sat here all night waiting for her?

I fumed over my tea, sipping it to make it last longer, looking up longingly at the fifth floor (which in any country but America is actually the sixth floor). So close, yet so far. I wondered if I could lower myself to our balcony from my upstairs neighbors'. I had left my balcony door open for the breeze this morning, and I could easily get inside once I was on my balcony. In my head I made some sentences to ask Orhan: "Benim anatarlarımı unutdum. Senin balkonın kullanabilir miyim? (I forgot my keys. Can I use your balcony?)"

It would be risky, and I doubted Orhan would be happy. How would I explain to him that I have gone rock-climbing and rappelling? How would I assure him that I could do it? Would people across the street notice me climb down? I envisioned the neighbors watching me dangle above the concrete. "Crazy yobancılar," they would mutter. But what, I defended in my head, would they do if they got locked out?! Surely Turks, too, must forget their keys occasionally.

I concluded that my descent would be easier if I had some kind of sheet or rope to tie around the railing. However, when I checked my immediate memory for "sheet" or "rope", I found no Turkish equivalents. I doubted that neither İsan (the corner market owner) nor the new restaurant waiter would permit me to snoop through their closets.

Unable to explain my needs, I would have to perform my death-defying stunt relying only on my hands. But my hands would be sweaty from anticipation. I remembered my days of rock-climbing and pool-playing. I needed chalk to absorb the sweat. Would Orhan have any chalk? Highly doubtful, but flour would work. His wife must surely have flour. Any Turkish woman worth her weight in kebab would have flour in her kitchen.

The waiter brought me a second cup of tea. The wind was starting to blow harder, and it was getting darker. My mood blackened further. I was tired and wanted Sondra to come home. Why the fuck had I forgotten my keys again?! Would spending all night waiting outside for Sondra, or splattering onto the concrete after slipping as I tried to get from one balcony to another, help me learn my lesson to be less scatterbrained?

To facilitate wallowing in my own pity, I pointed up to the fifth floor and told the waiter that I lived here but had forgotten my keys. My housemate wasn't coming home soon. Oh woe is me.

Before I'd even finished explaining the situation, he'd flipped open his cell phone and called his locksmith friend. He spoke ludicrously fast, despite my repeated attempts to slow him down and repeat things, but I understood that someone was coming to open my door for 25 or 30 lira.

As my third cup of tea arrived, so did the locksmith. The waiter accompanied us up to my flat. About ten minutes after the he'd called for help, my door was open.

What's more?! When I handed the locksmith a twenty and a ten note, asking if he had five in change (only to be told no, he didn't), the waiter handed me back my ten, opened his own wallet and paid the remaining five. I offered my money to him-- "Çay için (For the tea)." He declined. "Lütfen! (Please!)" I tried to give him the money again a few seconds later but he clucked his tongue, batted my hand away, got into the elevator and disappeared.

Moral #1: Never underestimate the hospitality of a Turk.
Moral #2: The amount you can accomplish in your own language is staggering. Life is supposed to be this easy, J, you dummy. Prolonged exposure to being an Other is obviously hazardous to your mental health.