IN A FLASH

This is a true story, but admittedly it did happen many years ago. I’m revisiting it this week because once again, I locked myself out of the house.  This time it was in broad daylight, and I had all my clothes on, a distinct improvement from what I did about 20 years ago. It’s worth retelling the story…

 I had just arrived home after giving a speech, pulled into the garage about 11:00 pm, and entered the house through the door inside the garage. Mary Ellen was asleep upstairs. I quietly went into the bedroom and undressed, but before putting on my sleeping shorts, I decided to run downstairs and grab a small bottle of fruit juice from the garage fridge. I retrieved the drink and turned the knob to re-enter the house. The knob refused to budge. “No way,” I said to myself.  And no clothes, either. I was locked out. Buck naked.

 I panicked, banging on the door with both fists, bellowing Mary Ellen’s name. There was no response.  I knew the bedroom door was probably closed and the ceiling fan was whirring. On a scale from one to ten to be heard, I would need to make a disturbance that was a seven on theRichter scale. Mary Ellen can sleep through anything. Except my snoring.

 Wait, my cell phone was in the car! If I called Mary Ellen’s phone, that would surely get Mary Ellen’s attention. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.  It went to voicemail. Out of habit, I left a message: “Hello, Mary Ellen. If you get this, I’m in the garage with no clothes on. When you have a moment, could you come downstairs and let me in?”

 I hated to be a pessimist, but I didn’t imagine she would check for messages at 11:30 pm. Now what was I going to do?  I remembered that sometimes I leave the back door of the house unlocked.  All I had to do was sneak around and go through the entrance on the deck. Buck naked.

 I began to fully appreciate what my wife goes through when we plan an evening out. I needed to give some serious consideration to my wardrobe. But what was appropriate for this occasion? I had two choices: A lovely 40-gallon black garbage bag or the 34-gallon clear plastic bags. I look terrible in black, but the other option seemed, well, redundant. Instead, I just opened the garage door and made my way along the side of the house; then, as I neared the backyard, I bolted toward the deck, up the steps, and into the living room.

 The next morning, I decided not to tell Mary Ellen what happened. I wasn’t in the mood to be made fun of. But I had forgotten about that voicemail. She called me from work later that day…

 “Dick, I just listened to the oddest message. Last night, about the time you were supposed to get home, there was a naked man in our garage. Now, who in heaven’s name could that have possibly been?”

 “I haven’t the slightest idea, Mary Ellen.”

 I figured she’d never find out. I didn’t leave my name on that voicemail.