The day before Thanksgiving was shit-tastic. Wednesday was a hilarious fucking nightmare.
It started rather normal: I took a cab downtown to make it to my weekly physical therapy (PT) appointment. After my session, I decided to walk the 1.7 miles home since it’s much better for my health. I arrived at my front door only to realize I didn’t have my keys–any of them. Somehow I lost them on my short journey home. I called the PT’s office: no keys. I called the cab company: no keys. I went to call my roommate: my phone died. Of course.
Without a phone charger, I decided to retrace my steps while figuring out the best place to request a charge. I walked through Chinatown; I stopped at a bank. Why not? I thought. “Hi. I locked myself out of my apartment and I need to call my landlord, but my phone is dead. Do you have an iPhone charger?” I tried to ignore how odd my request might sound at 11am on a Wednesday in a part of town I didn’t live. Why wouldn’t I need a phone charger? Why wouldn’t I stop at a bank? The petite teller began asking her colleges for a charger until she managed to find one. She plugged in my phone, I deposited a check, and we both waited. I poured myself some water. They only had styrofoam cups. Isn’t styrofoam basically illegal now? It’s so bad for the environment… I waited some more.
At 32% battery life, the teller handed me back my phone and I got a hold of my roommate via text: Do you have the landlord’s number? She sent me the work number for the landlord’s wife. It’s all she had. I called the wife. “Oh, I’m sorry, Molly is out of the country.” Of course she is. I hung up. I waited a second. I called back. “It’s Kristie again. Is there anyone who can help me? I’m locked out of my place?”
Where’s your place?
I’ll check to see if anyone is around who has keys.
What’s you’re number?
xxx-xxx-xxxx, but you should know my phone is about to die.
Where are you right now?
Downtown. I’m retracing my steps to see if I can find my keys. I haven’t found them. Clearly.
Okay. We’ll call you back.
I stopped in a Starbucks. I ordered oatmeal and a banana. I watched two gentlemen play checkers. I ate. I waited. I had successfully been over every step of my morning, but still no keys. Finally, I started the walk back home and called my landlord’s office to check in.
Hi, this is Kristie again. My phone is about to die. I’m just wondering if you found anyone with keys to my apartment.
Oh yea, we did. He’s at your place. Where are you?
Downtown.” Didn’t we just have this f*cking conversation?!
Well, do you know Gerry? He’s at your place with the keys.
Yes, I know him. Can you call and tell him to wait? I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m walking home. Please let him know I’m coming. My phone is about to die.
What’s you’re phone number?
xxx-xxx-xxxx Yea, we totally had this conversation. How will having my phone number help?
We hung up and I walked toward home. I checked in with work. I provided proof of life to a friend. At 26% battery life I was focused on the tasks at hand. And then, out of nowhere,
A FUCKING PIEGON FLEW INTO MY HEAD.
Yes. You read that right. A pigeon COLLIDED with my face. That little bugger whacked me right in the side of the head, clearly breaching any human-fowl agreement we had in place. I stood there in disbelief. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? What. The. Fuck.
I sent a text to my friend: I should be able to get into my place, and a pigeon just flew into my head. Can’t make this shit up. As I rounded the corner to my place I looked down at my phone one last time. My friend had replied: HAHAHAHAHA. Well, hopefully you didn’t get a ticket on your car while trying to track down your keys. And that’s when it occurred to me that if anything was going to happen to my car, today would probably be that day. I looked up the street and noticed my car was missing. Okay, breathe. Breathe. Get into your apartment, then you can deal with the car.
I went to my apartment, Gerry let me in. He told me I should have a set of spare keys. Really? I do have a spare set–it’s just they were hanging on that hook there inside my apartment, so they’re not doing me much good. After he left, I googled “towing in San Francisco.” It’s amazing how easy it is to locate the number to call if you suspect your car has been recently towed. “Hi this is Kristie. I think my car was towed. Yes, today. It’s a silver Honda Fit. I don’t have the license plate number. Yes, those were the cross streets.” And then my suspicions were confirmed: my car had indeed been towed. Lovely.
Okay, so what happens if I just leave my car with you guys? If the fees were the same, I’d consider free parking for the weekend the sliver lining.
It’s $60/day for storage fees.
What time do I have to pick it up to avoid storage fees?
You need to pick it up by 8:41pm in order not to incur additional fees.
How much is it to get my car?
[Pause] Okay, do you offer any type of discounts? Like a discount for paying in cash?
I’m sorry, no.
How about a discount for my awesome personality?
No, I’m sorry. If it were up to me, I’d give you a discount, but unfortunately the prices are set.
Well, then I’ll see you soon. What’s the address again?
I wrote down the location, hailed a cab, and spit out the information to the driver:
450 7th Street, please.
You got your car towed, hu?
Yes. Yes I did.
Yes. Yes it is.
We then proceed to talk about the ridiculous parking and ticketing and towing in San Francisco–because it is nothing short of ridiculous–and I may have complained about my neighbors who decided I was blocking their driveway, when I wasn’t.
We arrived at the impound lot, the cab driver wished me luck, and I left to retrieve my car.
So, Wednesday was the day I locked myself out my apartment, my car was towed, and a pigeon flew into my head. And Thursday? Thursday was Thanksgiving, a day when I was thankful it wasn’t Wednesday.