Authors: David Terruso
I assume that the file cabinets are locked, but this is Paine-Skidder, so it’s worth checking out before learning how to pick a lock.
Keith leaves before five that day, which is usually cause for me to leave early, especially since it’s Friday. Instead, I head down to the second floor copy room.
The security guard does his rounds floor by floor, but I’m not sure if he starts on the fourth floor or the first. My plan is to hang out in the copy room making work-like motions until he passes by and leaves the floor, then make for the HR office once no one but the cleaning crew will be around for a while. If the cleaning crew comes in, I can always just pretend it’s my office.
I write stupid notes on pieces of paper and copy them. One note says BABIES LOOK LIKE THEY’RE SMILING WHEN THEY HAVE GAS. SO IF YOU HATE FARTS, YOU BASICALLY HATE BABY SMILES. After ten minutes, I hear the swish of the guard’s windbreaker. A few minutes later, I hear the click of the stairwell door and know he’s gone.
My instinct is to crawl to the office and sneak in undetected, but no one is around. And if anyone were around, it would be best to act casual. So I do. I whistle.
The HR office is empty, lights off. I leave the lights off and the door open. I check the two cabinets marked PERSONNEL, and both are locked. Fair enough. Time to go look up lock picking.
I stroll out of the HR office and a man’s voice sends my stomach up to my Adam’s apple.
“Hiya Don?”
Phew. Just Mumbles. Calm down, Bobby. “Good. You?”
“Aight. Workeh late, huh?”
“I work till five-thirty, actually.”
“Oh yeah?”
* * *
Considering the ease with which you can find out how to make a bomb online, I shouldn’t have been so surprised to find not only lock picking instructions online, but demonstrations on YouTube.
I discover that the locks on the file cabinets are most likely what’s called wafer-tumbler locks. Inside the keyhole are a series of wafer-shaped tumblers that sit on springs in the lock. Springs push the tumblers up and down in the holes like pistons in an engine. There are two sets of tumblers sitting on top of each other. The differing lengths of the tumblers create the unique sequence of the lock. The top tumblers have to be flush with the housing of the lock and the bottom tumblers have to be flush with the inside of the cylinder for the key to turn. The key is designed to poke the tumblers up so all of them are flush at the same time. If any one of the tumblers isn’t flush, the key won’t turn.
When you see people picking locks on TV, they stick this long thing in the edge of the lock first and then slide what looks like a dentist’s pick all the way inside the lock and move it around. The long thing is a tension wrench; you stick this in and turn it slightly so the cylinder in the lock is off-center. Then you stick in the pick and slide it to the back of the lock. Working from back to front, you use the pick to push up each tumbler. Once it’s flush with the cylinder, it sits on top of it because you’re twisting the cylinder with the tension wrench. You listen for the faint click of the tumbler landing on the cylinder before moving on to the next tumbler. The cylinder twists a little more with each tumbler you drop on top of it. When you get the front tumbler in place, you turn the cylinder with the tension wrench, and the lock is open.
Fairly simple in theory, but in practice, I bet it’s like solving a Rubik’s Cube behind your back. I order the cheapest locksmith set I can find and this awesome clear practice lock that lets you see the tumblers move while you work, all for about seventy dollars. I can’t wait for my new toys to come!
* * *
Nancy calls me that night to see if I want to get together on Saturday. We agree that this won’t be a date. Just two friends hanging out on a Saturday night. Dinner and a movie. And we agree to try our dangdest to keep it platonic.
I spent a lot of time trying to find an original idea for my re-first date with Nancy and nothing came to me at first. But then I figured out that the best thing would be to take a tour of our important dates from the past. Start at the theater where we met. Have a drink at the pub where we had our first conversation (a pub that let in a nineteen-year-old girl). Have dinner where we had our first date. Take her to the lobby of my old shit-hole apartment, where we had our first kiss, and have our re-first kiss there. Drive to Ocean City, New Jersey, where we went on our first vacation, walk the boardwalk, maybe sleep at the cheap motel we’d vowed never to stay in again. She would love it. A visit from the ghost of relationship past.
* * *
I already know what my platonic non-date with Nancy will entail. She’ll show up in the most provocative ensemble she owns without being outright slutty. Boobs pushed up and squeezed together. Butt popping in her skinny jeans. Lips shining and pouty. Perfect makeup with that smoky eye look. She’ll flip her hair and giggle in that bubbly, flirty way she has. She’ll want me to spend the night tortured, strangled by my unwavering erection, dying to touch her. I’m more than willing to play this game. If I win, I prove my self-control. And if I lose, I still win.
We meet in the parking lot of the Japanese restaurant I chose for dinner. There she stands: boobs pushed up and squeezed in, butt popped, eyes smoked, lips pouted, hair primed for flipping. The tear-shaped crystal at the bottom of her handmade necklace pulls my eyes down to her cleavage. The way she kisses my cheek and hugs me tells me that she intends for this night to conclude in re-consummation. She would only sleep with someone she was in love with so she probably hasn’t slept with anyone since we broke up. Poor thing.
We sit in the lobby waiting for a table, crammed onto a couch with three other people, our knees crushed together. Nancy’s hand touches my thigh at every opportunity. While we talk, my mind keeps playing memories of how she looks naked and sweaty and above me. I try to block these images out to no avail.
“You’re gonna learn how to pick a lock? That’s awesome.” Nancy yawns, momentarily resting her beautiful head on my shoulder.
“Very awesome.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Very illegal.”
I explain the lock-picking process. She listens intently, her eyes sparkling with interest. We’re smooshed closer together on this couch than we would be if we were dry-humping. Uncomfortably close. And yet, completely comfortable at the same time.
The hostess calls my name and Nancy and I pry ourselves from the couch with a giant shoehorn and some bacon grease.
Nancy looks so happy. Dinner flies by, conversation overwhelming the urge to eat. She seems to have forgiven me for cheating, but I know she hasn’t forgotten. I bring the mood down for a minute without a preamble. “So do you think you could ever trust me again?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. I wanna try. I can’t say I wouldn’t be more jealous. More possessive. I’d probably want to know where you are all the time, at least at first. You know?” She frowns, afraid her honesty will push me away.
I smile. She gave me the honest answer I need. I have to know she won’t say what I want to hear to get me back. I owe her the same honesty. “I’m not a strong person. I have a real problem with will power. I please myself with food, poker, sex, then punish myself with other things. Sometimes with those same things. I get stuck in this cycle of doing what feels good with no thought of the consequences and then hurting myself for my mistakes. I’ve been like this since puberty. Maybe since always. But I’m trying. I really am.”
“I believe you.”
“I saw Helen when Eve died, and she tried to kiss me and I wouldn’t let her because of you. So I know that I’m physically capable of denying that urge. I did it to have a chance with you again. I just want one chance. I don’t deserve it, but if you’re giving it to me, I’m taking it seriously. If I were one of your girl friends and you asked me if you should give Bobby another chance, I’d say no. I’m not sure people can change.”
“I think they can.”
“So you haven’t met any great guys since the last time we saw each other?”
“Nope. None. I’m stuck with you.” She winks.
“I’m afraid I’m giving this another try for selfish reasons. It’s what’s best for me, not for you.”
“Let
me
decide what’s best for me. I’d rather try again and end up alone and crying in six months and at least be able to say I tried. Then I’ll be able to tell myself that it will never work. Right now I can’t say that. I need to see. I know how much it’ll suck if we break up again. And if you cheat again, I know how much it’ll suck when I cut off your unit in the middle of the night and throw it out the window of a moving car.” She giggles.
I laugh at her choice of the word
unit
. One of the things we’ve always had in common is our love of switching between an endless list of euphemisms for genitals.
* * *
Sitting in the back of a half-full movie theater watching the latest X-Men movie, Nancy leans over and kisses my neck just under the jawline. All these girls know exactly where my buttons are. “Let’s make out like old times.” She keeps her nose pressed against my earlobe.
“Like old times? We’ve never made out in a movie theater before.” I chuckle, my breath shaky from the sensation tickling my neck.
“Then let’s make out like new times.” She laughs onto my skin and I get a chill, the fine hairs on my neck rising.
Our row is empty on our side of the theater, but the row across from us on the other side is full, and people are sitting in front of and behind us. I don’t like the idea of people watching me kiss. I’ve done a few stage kisses and they were all weird. “Get outta here.” I smile and tilt my head away from her.
“You scared?” This is a bolder Nancy than the one I took for granted.
“No, I’m not scared. Making out in the movies is for thirteen year olds.”
“Fine.” She shifts her body away from me, her mouth pursed so tightly that her lips almost vanish.
I mull it over and realize that this is the perfect place for us to kiss. Here, I can be sure that the kissing won’t lead to anything else. I wanted to save our first re-kiss and everything else for the official first re-date, but admittedly I do feel like I’ll implode if I don’t kiss her.
I touch Nancy’s chin and she jerks away as if I shocked her with static electricity. Before she can stew in her rejection juices, I lean in and take her face in my hands. She tries to speak as my mouth covers hers. Her tight lips relax and we kiss with familiarity, novelty, passion, loneliness.
We kiss until the lights come on after the credits. The movie hadn’t been that good, so missing the final act was fine by me.
I walk her to her car and politely kiss her goodbye. “Drive safe.”
Confusion contorts her face. “What?”
“Drive safe. Text me when you get home.”
“Don’t play with me.” Her hands slide around my waist. Her pushed-up boobs are pushed up against me.
“I can’t.” I talk over her shoulder. “We can’t. Not yet. There’s no rush.”
She leans back to study my face, unsure if this is one of my straight-faced jokes.
“I’m not kidding. We have to wait.”
“Goodnight.” She digs her keys out of her purse.
“Don’t be mad at me.”
“Goodnight!” She scrapes around the lock with her key in the dim parking lot. I stand there, waiting for her to look at me again. She gets in her car and slams the door. Headlights flash on, engine revs, and she squeals away.
It’s a beautiful June night and I feel like an asshole. I surprised myself by finding a new way to make Nancy cry. Feeling this bad about doing the right thing is what made me into the kind of man I’m trying desperately not to be. I did this as much for her as for me. I proved something to her whether she realizes it or not. But it doesn’t matter. She’ll still sleep alone tonight, if she sleeps.
With a proud mind and a guilty heart, I drive home alone and masturbate myself to sleep like the gentleman I always knew I could be.
* * *
My locksmith tools and see-through lock come Monday afternoon; I paid fifteen dollars extra for second-day air shipping. Keith is out, so when Suzanne leaves at four o’clock, I have ninety minutes to try to pick the clear lock. After twenty-five minutes of struggling to make the pick do what my eyes can see needs to be done, I pop the fifth tumbler into place and the lock twists open. I feel exhilarated, similar to how people must feel when they finish a crossword puzzle.
I immediately turn to my file cabinet to practice the real thing. A filing cabinet lock usually has only three tumblers, so it should be a breeze.
It’s like parking my car blindfolded. After an hour, I give up in frustration and drive home. I decide not to use my key to get into my apartment. My rationale for this is that hunger and the threat of peeing my pants will force my mind to focus and my hands to work swiftly. After an hour of trying to pick the lock I give up and use my key, rushing into my bathroom to take a forty-five-second piss that feels as good as a blowjob.
After dinner I go back to breaking into my own apartment. One of my neighbors comes into the hallway to ask me if everything is OK. I tell him I’m practicing to take the locksmith exam and he buys it.
If there is a locksmith exam, I bet it involves doing what I can’t do in an hour in under a minute.
Twenty minutes later, I get the door to open. I do a quiet happy dance in the hall, close my door, lock it, and start over. This time I get it open in ten minutes. By eleven-thirty that night, I can pick the lock in four minutes.
The next day I spend half my lunch break picking the lock on my filing cabinet. I set a goal of two minutes. It takes me ten minutes to get it open the first try, two minutes the second, and I do it in thirty seconds the last time. I use my wolf-like hearing to make sure no one catches me practicing.
Keith is out again, so I spend the last hour of my day picking my filing cabinet. I learn not to fully turn the cylinder once the lock is picked because that means having to pick it again to relock it.
I decide that I’m going to pick the HR file cabinet tomorrow.
* * *
When I show up for work the next morning, I have the same feeling in my stomach that I used to get on the opening night of a show. I spend most of my lunch practicing the felony that I’ll be performing at the end of the day.