The Adventure of the Newlywed in the Night

The night air was warm and humid and pregnant with possibilities. As I relaxed in the RV, there came a knock on the door, which in itself is unusual. Then, even more unusual, a feminine voice said, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I need some help."

She was of medium height with straight hair, ordinary clothes, and not quite middle-aged. She continued that she was locked out of her mobile home, the one parked next to mine. And her husband was in Canada! Having no Watsonian companion, I was forced to deal with the situation solo.

(Here, gentle reader, please pause to consider how this situation might play itself out. Of all the possibilities, which do you think is most likely?)

She told me her name was Shirley and she had been married only two weeks. The mobile home was brand new and they had just moved in. She said that when she arrived home from work, she unlocked the door, dumped her purse and keys on the counter, and closed the door behind her to fetch groceries from the car. When she returned, the closed door was locked. She hadn't tried to lock it, hadn't done anything to lock it, but it was certainly locked now. And her keys were inside. That was her story, and for the moment I decided to take it at face value.

She borrowed my screwdriver and poked it at the door lock. Knowing that this would have little effect, I seized the opportunity to slip away and examine the mobile home, pointing my flashlight at the windows — all of them closed and locked. The place was sealed up as tight as a brand-new bottle of whiskey.

"What can I do?" she wailed. I decided not to take the heat on this one and calmly told her, "Call your husband. Tell him you're locked out." She accepted the cell phone I offered and punched in his number from memory. He answered. "It's me," she said, skipping the kind of endearments one might expect from newlyweds, and cutting directly to the matter at hand. "I'm locked out. [pause] Well, I don't know what to do. Send somebody out here to open the door!" She hung up and said, "He says he'll call the fire department and see if they'll come out."

A few minutes later I saw a huge truck pull into the RV park. At first I didn't recognize it in the darkness because the flashing lights and siren were turned off, but the long aerial lift ladder gave it away. I called out, "Shirley, your fire truck is here!" She giggled "My fire truck?" and waved at it. It slowly rolled to a stop in front of her mobile home and sat there, its powerful engine idling at a mild roar.

Three fire fighters climbed down — a silver-haired fellow in charge and two crew-cut rookies. Sadly, they weren't wearing their helmets, slickers, and boots, but were dressed informally, as if we had interrupted their card game or TV program. I watched them expectantly, ready to learn from these pros how to solve a problem like this. They examined the exterior of the mobile home. After several minutes of looking and conferring, they decided they could find no way in, aside from taking a fire axe and smashing a window, which they declined to do. They radioed for a locksmith.

By now a crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings. "She's locked out," I told them with an air of authority. I felt excited to be part of the drama, even if my part had been eclipsed by other players.

Twenty minutes later the locksmith arrived and picked the door lock in less than a minute. The door opened, Shirley walked in, got her purse, and paid the locksmith. The firemen drove away, their lights and siren still turned off. The excitement over, the crowd dispersed and Menominee took me for a walk.