I get back to my building and reach into my back pocket. I dig for the fob that opens the front door, but can’t find it. Each pocket gets patted in anticipation of the familiar key-jingle noise, but I don’t hear it.
I wait for someone else to come into the building and I take the elevator up. There are two sliding glass doors that lead from the living room to the patio, and I sometimes leave one unlocked by accident. Hopeful, I shuffle to the first door and try it. Locked. I look inside and see the glow of my bedroom lights.
It’s November, which wouldn’t mean much in Austin if it weren’t for the cold front we’re dealing with. I move on to the next door, and it’s also locked.
Crap.
Then I remember that I bought an awesome lock pick set that fits into my wallet. After being locked out of our room in Japan and having to pick the little lock with a soda can tab and a bobby pin, I bought the set for just this purpose. I slide one of the heavy patio chairs next to the lock and start picking. The first few minutes don’t bring success. I have no lock picking training, and thus very limited ability. An hour later I still haven’t opened the door and my patience has worn thin. In defeat I call the locksmith.
The roof of the building is cold, so I huddle into a corner of the patio where I read an Ann Raynd book on my phone. Soon it’s too cold for that and I retreat to the lobby of the building. Standing there are a couple guys, one who is obviously drunk.
“Dude! Are you the guy who put the swing on the roof?“
“Yeah”
Somehow everyone in the building knows about that now. Most think it’s pretty cool, but a few people are mortally offended at the idea. He falls into the former category.
“We’re having a model photo shoot! You should check it out.”
Soon there are three models in dresses prancing around the lobby while the photographer shoots them. I read my book in the warmth of the entryway and occasionally glance up in amusement. The locksmith should have been here by now, but one of the concierges returns a message I left earlier and offers to bring me a key. I protest because it’s far too much of an inconvenience, but he insists.
I call the locksmith. Apparently he forgot his lock picks, needs to go pick them up, and will be here in an hour. I cancel the call.
Gabriel, the concierge gets here just as the photoshoot seems to be wrapping up.
“Hey man… can we take a couple shots on your patio or something?”
I agree, because random propositions often lead to interesting stories. Gabriel offers to show them up so that they can set up fast while I get some stuff from my car.
A few minutes later I’m juggling a pillow, a handful of batteries, and a Cranium game as the elevator ascends to the top floor. I open my door to a surprise.
Inside the photographer has materialized a lighting rig and has set it up in my living room. The two models are now wearing lingerie, one tugging on a string of pearls as if it was a leash for the other girl. Fascinating.
I sit down on the couch next to the makeup artist and survey my life. I’m sitting in an amazing condo, watching two models get photographed. Most people are on their couches watching the Simpsons. Life is fair – especially to me.
After a brief detour to ooh and ahh over my strange collection of clothes, the girls leave. At that very moment a mob of my friends come over – they’ve just missed the fun, but catch a glimpse of the proof.
I exchange e-mails with the photographer and two weeks later I’m sitting on my couch again, watching another photoshoot with different models, writing a post for you. Not too bad.
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