Arrrrrggghhhh….

I hope the Boston Post Mortem meeting went well last night. There was a good chance that I wasn’t going anyway, but something pretty much awesome happened last night that prevented me from going. I wrote a little story for people at work about it, so I figured I would post it here too as my excuse for not being there. Since it was written for people who know me personally, I’ll give you a little more information: Deanna is my wife, Billy Ahlswede is an artist at 38 Studios who is out of town, and Lord Pistachio is Billy’s dog.

The following is a true story from Ryan Shwayder’s house which occurred last night beginning at roughly 6:45 PM. It may shock you, so please be advised that those with weak stomachs or any common sense should stop reading now. You have been warned.

We are currently watching Billy’s dog at the Shwayder house. I tell you this not because you care, but because I like to include more details than absolutely necessary in stories.

Around 6:45, Deanna was heading out to girl’s night at the local Olive Garden. I made her take my car because hers has the worst headlights on the face of the Earth, and Massachusetts does not believe in street lights (they don’t tax citizens enough to afford them). So, as she headed out I came with her so I could take Lord Pistachio (that’s the Ahlswede dog) to the bathroom.

Deanna headed off and Pistachio peed like a girl dog, even though he is a boy dog, then I headed back up to the apartment. Curiously, the door didn’t open for me.

“Hmm, maybe I’m on the wrong floor,” I said. “Nope, I’ll try again. Nope. Crap. She must have locked the door on her way out. I didn’t bring any keys so I’ll give her a call and have her let me in before she gets too far.” I rummaged in my pockets. “Curious indeed, I have nothing at all in my pockets. Not a phone, not a pen, not a wallet. Nor, interestingly enough, do I have any shoes on.”

So I, under the protection of Pistachio, wandered down to the front office in my socks on the wet streets (it had to rain last night, because Massachusetts citizens don’t pay enough taxes for it to not rain). *Shclunk Shclunk* went the door. Ah, of course the office closes at 6:00, because apartment complexes do best if they are only open during normal business hours when people who want (and can afford) apartments couldn’t possibly visit.

I squished around for a little while in search of a human with a cell phone and eventually found one. I borrowed some guy’s phone (who looked a little odd, probably because I was squishing around in socks in the rain with a dog) and gave Deanna a call. *Ring Ring* went the phone. *Ring Ring* went the phone. *Ring Ring* went the phone. Of course, Deanna is at the restaurant by now and couldn’t possibly hear her phone ringing.

Downtrodden, I meandered back up to the area by my apartment building and waited. Several minutes passed, and I sought out another human with another cell phone. I kept seeing lone females and felt too bad to approach them like a stranger in the night, because I was a stranger in the night (with wet socks and no shoes and a dog). Eventually, no male appeared. So, I finally decided to approach one of the lone females coming my way instead of walking toward them myself, and I borrowed another cell phone.

*Ring Ring* went the phone. *Ring Ring* went the phone. *Ring Ring* went the phone. Of course, Deanna is still in the restaurant and couldn’t possibly hear her phone ringing. I left a very specific message for her with detailed information about my predicament, and hopefully she would chance upon it before too long. “Hey, I’m locked out. If you could come let me in that would be awesome.”

I went inside the apartment building and sat in one of the world’s most uncomfortable chair-like objects ever and waited. An hour passed. Pistachio decided to take it upon himself to bark at any person within a quarter mile radius, which made it quite exciting because we were both starting to get bored. More time passed. I realized that she probably didn’t get the message by now and figured she should be getting home quite soon.

Ah, I see lights in the reflection of the many-times-cloned “painting” on the wall opposite me. It must be her. No. No, it’s not her, don’t be silly. It’s just every other person who could possibly get here. Finally, after a dozen more people showed up and raised-slash-dashed my hopes, I saw a blue Acura outside headed for the parking lot. It was my car! Hopefully, Deanna was still in possession of it.

By now she’d heard my message and was distraught because she felt terrible about stranding me out of the apartment for a feature-length film’s worth of time. She identified what was the only parking spot left in the bottom lot in front of the doors, which is between two of those $50 a month roof tops precariously supported by two-by-fours on the corners (which happen to block none of the elements at all, but do make you look like you are willing to spend money on something that is worthless, thus warning me not to talk to you).

Given her current nervousness, it was only natural that she turned a little early into the space and scraped up most of the driver side of my car that I made her take because hers has crappy headlights. The screech that I heard as she tried to pull in made me feel quite happy, so I volunteered to go ahead and park the car myself.

When we got inside the apartment, I had a beer.