Thursday, December 6, 2012

Locked In The Bathroom

LAST NIGHT AFTER guitar lessons in the store, I flopped on the couch to catch my breath when I heard a muffled voice coming from the back.


I moved closer.

It doesn't lock now ....
"I'm in the bathroom and the lock just broke," Sheryl said. "Does the knob on the outside have a hole where we can pick it?"


"Bleep," she said.

After momentarily panicking, and remembering that her husband is allergic to power tools and just generally being handy, Sheryl devised a plan.

"Move over to the side wall by the work bench and the divider, take a crowbar and try to slide needle nose pliers through the hole," she said.

When I replied that crowbars and pliers make me break out into hives, she got a bit huffy. I tried to move the divider, but it wouldn't budge, and I couldn't slide the pliers through the narrow hole in the wall.

That's when I suggested Sheryl would be fine, and sleeping on a hard floor would be good for her back. Ever hear a music store owner cuss? Generally she waits until the customers leave, so let's just say it ain't pretty, even if it's deserved.

"You have to get me a small Phillips screwdriver," Sheryl said.

"Phillips? Randy Phillips? Why does he have to get you a screwdriver?" I said.

More cursing. I apologized. I found one, but now, how to get it to Locked In The Loo Girl?

No lights up here, just drop ceilings.
We have a back room where I do lessons, the one Frank Haxel basically put together while I strained myself by watching. There's a hole in the ceiling where the light fixture will eventually go, though I'm waiting for this whole Mayan end of the world thing to pass first. Anyway, I told Sheryl to back up and I threw the pliers and the screwdriver through the hole.

I was hoping to hear at least one second of nothing before it hit the floor on the other side, but it immediately clunked. Turns out there is a drop ceiling about five feet long before the hallway starts, and that led to me asking Sheryl what a crowbar looks like, grabbing it, retrieving the items, and throwing them again.

"Wow. Only two tries. Are you OK?" Sheryl said.

She grabbed the pliers, dismantled the knob, and made her escape. Now she's out and about getting a new doorknob, presumably one that can be picked and that is Fast Eddie-proof.

Sheryl was so grateful I hadn't injured myself or her that she took me out to Hy-Vee for dinner, which makes me think that if I get more mechanical, maybe it would work to my hapless advantage.

Nah. It won't.

I'll just call Frank Haxel or have Sheryl figure it out, and hope I don't knock anybody out when I fling tools through the air.

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