I was on my way out the garage door to a Memorial Day picnic without a care in the world (except for the constant, nagging existential worries, of course, and the usual crippling feelings of simultaneous loneliness and self-imposed exile), when, after many tries of pulling on the door with all of my feeble might, I realized that the garage door wasn't in operating condition. As it’s the only way out of my house, I immediately started panicking, pacing, leaving message after message on my landlord’s machine, taking stock of the food situation (licorice, cat food, soy milk…uh oh). The next 45 minutes were spent shaking the door, throwing myself at the door, and pacing in front of the door. I felt utterly alone. I couldn’t imagine calling any of my friends to ask for help. I don’t like to ask for favors. It’s so undignified…unlike throwing myself at a garage door for 45 minutes.
I finally got up the courage to wake up Ali and Bethanne, who said, “I’ll be there in an hour.” Once I’d broken the ice of asking for favors, I called up Ukiah (who’s in Ukiah) for some garage door tech support. After trying several things at his suggestion and getting nowhere, he told me the following parable:
“There was a lady without arms and legs, but she made it to the beach and was basking in the sun and the sand. An attractive young man walked by and she thought how much better the day would be if he made love to her, so she asked the man to fuck her. The man picked her up and threw her into the ocean. There, he said, now you’re fucked. That lady is you.”
Ali, Bethanne, and I were able to lift the door together and I escaped to freedom and picnic. Luckily, the door was still propped open when I got home so I was able to gain reentry to my house. And like so many things, it magically fixed itself in the 9 hours I was at work today. There is a landlord in heaven after all.
