On Tuesday Kito and I managed to lock ourselves out of our apartment without our phones or any good ideas for getting back inside. Kito's proposal: buy a ladder, prop it against the wall of our building, climb up to our second-floor apartment, pry open the window, and either 1.) explain ourselves to the police or 2.) wait for the ambulance.
Fortunately, Jewel was still open, so I used the pay phone inside to call the BFF, who happens to have one of the four numbers I still have memorized (the other three belong to my mother, my late grandmother, and my cell phone). The BFF gave me the number of a locksmith, who showed up a mere 15 minutes later and picked the lock on our front door with surprising and rather unsettling speed. The rates now strike me as a little high for 17 seconds of work, but at the time I was willing to pay any amount to express my gratitude and relief.
I imagine the preceding sentence could also have been uttered by anyone who has ever contracted the services of a prostitute.
ELSEWHERE:
My short reviews of Bailiwick Chicago's Violet and Lifeline Theatre's The Count of Monte Cristo are in this week's Chicago Reader.
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