l i s a l a p e e r y . c o m

It's a typical Saturday night after bowling. I'm "watching" a movie and waiting for Tarot calls. I remember being light-weight irritated at being home, not out, but then again there was a gangster movie marathon starting with "The Godfather" and ending with "Goodfellas." Six hours of entertainment and I get to enlighten lives when the phone rings.

But the White Russian at the bar down the street is calling my name. So is my girl Lizzie, on my cell. "Lisala, I've got your drink you just have to come get it," I hear, in tandem with "To the window, to the floor.." she wins, with the help of Lil Jon. Twenty minutes later I'm ready to dance.

But there's one little problem. Not the usual stuff- I look good in my white ensemble and I have my keys in hand, cell in the purse. I have my water. I'm ret' to go! But the dang door won't open. More accurately, the lock won't turn. Another twenty minutes and I resign to the fact that I am, indeed, locked inside my apartment.

I didn't know this happened to people in their 30s. At midnight no less. Good thing I went grocery shopping because I wouldn't be able to call for help until 3pm Sunday afternoon. Well, helpful assistance wouldn't come until then, anyway.

I dialed Lizzie and she answered "No excuses this time Lisala, just come down here and get your drink on." She's used to me not showing up when I say I will, bad habit number 2. I explained what happened, three times. "See, if you lived on the second or third floor you could just climb down and get over here." She had no ideas for how I would get back into my home. We hung up.

I did what I do when these things happen. I called my friends. Luckily for me their lives are on par with mine. I like to think so, anyway. Knowing my friend is getting off work in ten minutes, I call.

"Hey Akwasi, guess what?"
"Lisala, " I think I heard doubt in his voice. Definite skepticism. Like he knows it's going to be messed up. So I didn't tell him anything. "Just saying hello, but I have to get going."

"Are you hungry?" Oh no. Not dinner. So the conversation ended in laughter because I couldn't join him for a meal. Because I was trapped.

Walter called to say hello and good job at bowling. I told him I was trapped. Once he understood the situation, he wished me luck and quickly ended the call. He had to finish driving.

So by the time Goodfellas was over my apartment was steam-cleaned and spotless, save for the tens of small grocery bags filled with useless junk waiting to go to the disposal. I awoke to find a message on my phone. Someone thought it would be funny to leave R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet" on my voicemail. By the time 3pm rolled around, I was batty. On a typical weekend I would've been in and out of the place at least a couple of times by now. After hearing my mother laugh (I was supposed to meet her for breakfast) I was tired of laughing. It wasn't funny anymore.

Especially since the guy who fixed my lock was the same guy who came knocking during my flood episode.

"Hey, never a dull month with you, huh?" I bet the thought that was funny.

But what was funnier was the fuse that blew while I was typing this story. The computer is on, the lights are off. The tv and VCR are on, but the lights over there are out too. The alarm clock is on, but again, no lights in the bedroom, or hallway. Great, another call to after-hours maintenance.

I explained the problem to Danny, and he said he would be over in a bit. Then he asked for the apartment number and re-thought the whole thing. "Oh, really? I'm not going to come over and fix it, but I'll tell you what to do."

I don't even warrant a visit anymore. I went to the stash of fuses in the secret public location and switched the fuses. I also wonder how long it will take for the closet door to be put back on the hinges.