Displaced

I come into a building, keys in hand. I walk to the elevator. I step over the threshold into the elevator. Do you see that space between the floor and the elevator floor, that crack of doom? That is where my keys will fall if I drop them at exactly the wrong second.

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine who told me about it once when we were in an elevator, so I know it could happen. Statistically, given the floor space to crack real estate ratio, I guess – maybe – the keys are more likely to land near the crack than in the crack. But that probably wouldn’t happen if I did drop the keys at that instant. My keys would definitely head for the crack. Although, I do have a lot of keys and and a keychain and one of those car unlocker things that really wouldn’t – probably – fit into the crack and the whole bundle might, instead, just get stuck at the top of the crack. Maybe. But if the keys and the keychain and the unlocker thing all lined up just right as they fell, they probably could slip through. Then they’d be lost forever, fallen into the darkness, inaccessible.

And then what would I do? I wouldn’t be able to get into my apartment. I don’t have a spare key anywhere. I’d be homeless. God. I don’t even know where to get a grocery cart to carry my stuff. Not that I’d have much because most of it’d still be locked up in my super-secure apartment. I’d have to get a tent or something to sleep in, but I don’t know how I’d pay for it because even though I have my ATM card, I can’t ever remember the PIN because I switched banks recently because my old bank went under because of bad lending policies. Not to me, mind you. Me they charged $14 when I took money out of an ATM in France. Jerks. So now I have this new bank but I can’t remember my PIN, which I also blame on my old bank because none of this would have happened if they hadn’t been such jerks. Except for the part with my keys. That wasn’t their fault. Just the tent part is them.

So here I am, keyless and homeless and tentless. One bad decision. One moment of inattention. A loosening of my grip, a fumble at the wrong instant and I’m living on the street. A second of…

I’m sorry, what? You say that the super will just open the door at the bottom of the elevator shaft, pick up my keys and give them back to me?

Oh.