Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Unlock This

A few weeks ago, Lucia Pamela and I went to dinner (drinks) then took in a sketch comedy show (drunk), all within a half a block of my Luxurious Hollywood Hills Apartment.

Upon exiting the theater (still drunk), I noticed my keys were no longer in my pocket. Panic immediately surged through my wine-soaked veins. Clearly, this was a problem. They were the keys to my apartment building, my apartment, my mailbox, my car, my roommate's car as well as several small "mystery keys"* that somehow sneaked onto my fucking awesome, irreplaceable key chain.

Lucia and I went back in and searched the theater for the wayward keys, crawling on our hands and knees as the impatient usher told us that seating for the next show was about to begin. While she didn't specifically address us as "You Drunk Idiots" at the end of the statement, it was certainly implied.

As Lucia and I visited the other restaurants & stores on the block, asking the shopkeeps (shopskeep?) if anyone had found them, she assured me that the keys would turn up, that someone would turn them in. After all, who wouldn't turn in a gigantic set of keys that doesn't belong to them? I mean, we live in a polite, evolved society. What would someone do with anonymous keys? They don't know where I live, or what those keys unlock. Will they just try every door and car and locker in the city until they find a match? Why not just turn them in? That's certainly what I would do. Because THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO DO.

Sadly, no one had done this. The store owners were kind enough to offer me sympathy, which I accepted, and most took down my phone number in case they turned up. A few hours later, the theater called to tell me that they had located my keys. "HOORAY," I shouted! I was half way out the door, thanking the caller profusely when she said, "Yeah, it's a Mazda key and a few others." I stopped. My heart sank: "Mazda?" "Yeah, Mazda."

"Are you sure it's a Mazda key?"

She assured me it was, in fact, a Mazda key. She knew this because it said "Mazda" right on it.

I let her know that they weren't my keys and thanked her anyway.

The next 24 hours were pretty hellish. Not only could I not go anywhere, but the sheer amount of false hope was enough to crush anyone's soul... even a charred, black one like mine. When it opened, I went back to the theater, where I waited in the lobby with a man who had lost his phone the night before. Apparently, the theater is a black hole of lost objects. As the searcher came back, she announced: "I have good news, and I have bad news."

With that, she handed the gentleman his phone.

I figured if the keys didn't turn up within 48 hours, I was totally screwed. The next day, I expanded my search. On my way out to do another lap around the neighborhood, I wondered if perhaps I had dropped them in the halls of my apartment building. I asked the manager if anyone had turned in a set of keys. This didn't seem to phase her at all, even though I've technically put every one of the residents in danger. She said "Oh yes, we found them. They have a little police man key chain on it, right?" I said, "Uhh, no. Those aren't mine." She said, "Are you sure? They have a Petco club card on them!" I stared at her blankly as she realized, "Oh. You don't have pets." "No," I replied, "I don't have pets. Or a police man on my key chain."

I was desperate. I looked everywhere, tried everything. I even went to the Post Office, on the slim hopes that someone may have dropped them into a mailbox for some reason. The clerk told me the Post Office sends any miscellany downtown to get destroyed. I asked, "So... you don't have a lost and found here? At all?" "No," I was told. Who the fuck doesn't have a lost and found?

I knew there was only one thing left to do:

I posted signs in the neighborhood. Big ones that announced that I had lost my keys. I also included my phone number. This, as it turns out, was a bigger mistake than losing my keys in the first place. Not only was I getting lots calls about everyone else's fucking keys except for mine (including a call about the policeman/pets key from my apartment building, thanks) I also began to get random text messages from people harassing me about losing my keys. One girl texted me to let me know that, although she thought I was stupid, that she thought my sign was funny. Thanks. Glad I could entertain you. Now go find my fucking keys.

I took the signs down after a week, once I received this message:

...because that's helpful. Let's put on a fake accent and harass the suicidal guy who can't get into his house or car! What. The. Fuck. Just because you're waiting in line for a comedy show does not make you hilarious. And whatever fucking character you're doing on that call isn't fucking funny. Shouldn't you be at a Lame Convention with Dane Cook screening Paul Blart: Mall Cop instead of fucking calling me up? Imbecile.

I accepted my fate and began the long, fucking expensive task of replacing the keys. The standard keys were easy--even the ones that say DO NOT DUPLICATE caused no problem whatsoever. The car keys, however, will cost more than Five HUNDRED dollars to replace. $500.00. Because they are "Smart Keys." They are called this because the car companies are smart enough to charge you whatever they want because they know you're fucked if you need a new one. Fucking key extortionists.

I sincerely hope that whoever stole my fucking keys enjoys them. I hope they go fuck themselves with them and then I hope that they trip, fall, and have both of their eyes gouged out by them. Also on the Fuck Yourselves list: The Text Message Harassers, The Car Companies, and most of all, The Post Office.

For the rest of you, fucking turn in keys if you find them somewhere. Don't be an ass.

Good Day.

*Whenever I mention the half-sized keys to people, they impatiently tell me that they are for items such as padlocks and gym lockers, of which I own none. Then I'm forced to roll my eyes and tell them I think that the regular-sized keys are having sloppy and inappropriate relations while in my pocket, resulting in the creation of these baby keys, because they are drunk metal whores.... Then I have to politely remind them that I LOST MY FUCKING KEYS, so unless you know where they are, keep your "thoughts" to yourself and let me complain. Ass.