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akujunkanMy Weekend. (A play in thirteen acts.)
Ah, let's talk about my most recent weekend fiasco, shall we?
I headed back into the Oaks on Friday afternoon for a night of Euchre and EDM without having to worry about the insanely inconvenient train times thanks to a friend who invited me to crash at her place. In fact, I actually tuckered out an hour before she did (thanks, no doubt, to all the dancing I did), so she gave me and another friend the keys to her place, we went back, and went to sleep.
I woke up bright and early the next morning and took a nice long walk to my hair stylists and got a much-needed cut. My friends were just waking up as I started the walk back, so I agreed to meet them at the apartment building.
Act I: I thought maybe you had the key.
"Hey!" chirped my friend as I met them outside the elevator. "You don't by any chance have my keys on you, do you?"
Nope.
Her: "Oh, well then I guess we're locked out of my place."
My friend's apartment has an automatic lock on the door. Shut it and you're shut out.
Me: "Well, where's your spare key? You know, the one you keep in your …?"
Her: "Oh, I let Keddie borrow that two weeks ago. He keeps saying he'll give it back, but he hasn't. He's in Tokyo this week anyway."
Me: "Why not call him?"
Her: "I can't. He spilled chuhai on his phone last week."
Act II: Maybe Mizzy has the key.
We head to an Indian restaurant for lunch.
Her: "I know. I'll call his girlfriend, and she can let us into his place to get the key. She may even know where it is."
A brief interval passes.
Her: "Hey, does anyone know the girlfriend's number?"
No one does. Someone suggests calling a mutual friend and getting the number from her. My friend does. She's on the phone for a long time.
Her: "That was weird. Satomi won't give me the number and she really didn't want to tell me why. I guess Mizzy's family is having some sort of memorial service or something. I had to spell the entire situation out to her before she even agreed to give me Mizzy's text."
Cue much speculation about the nature of the memorial service. I personally don't think anyone had died recently; we would have heard about it had there been a death in the family, and as Buddhist memorials are held at regular intervals up to the 100th anniversary of someone's death it's likely this was just a routine thing.
Finally, Satomi comes through with the text. But there is a problem. My friend's phone is running on low batteries. We all cross our fingers that Mizzy responds soon.
I suggest just heading back to the apartment and calling the landlord or superintendent. Which we do.
Surely, the landlord has a master key.
The number is posted all over the ground floor, clearly labeled "For Emergencies, Call xxx-xxxx" in large, colorful, hard-to-miss kanji. I call and explain the situation.
"Um," says the man on the other end. "This is the emergency line. You need to talk to the landlord. I can't help you."
Me: "Can you give me the number please? This is the only number anywhere on the building."
Man: "I have no idea. You'll need to call this number for it."
He gives me a three-digit number. I dial it.
Maybe the nation at large can help you.
It turns out that the number is the national telephone directory service.
"I'm sorry," says the man on the other end. "We don't have any numbers for your landlord registered with us."
It's at this point that I begin to wonder why on earth there's a better chance that a nationwide information service would have the landlord's number over the landlord's own local emergency line. But it's still early in this play and I don't want to start ::headwalling:: just yet.
So I call the emergency line back.
Act V: What sort of landlord doesn't have a master key?
Me: "They don't know the number."
Man: "Oh. Well, can you wait until the weekend's over?"
Me: "No."
Man: "Well, there really isn't anything I can do."
Wondering exactly what the emergency line does if they don't know anything about master keys or even the landlord's phone number, I impress upon him the urgency of the situation.
Act VI: Maybe Mystery Christmas Woman has a key.
I am given another number to call, this one for somebody's cell phone.
I explain the situation again, all the while pretending to be my friend, because explaining that I am a friend of the person who's been locked out, and not the friend herself, would break the brains of most Japanese.
I am getting quite good at reciting my friend's phone number and address.
The woman asks me, "Have you called the emergency number?"
Yes.
W: "Oh, well. Please hold."
I sit on hold for several minutes. Silent Night plays in the background.
The woman gets back on the line. "Sorry, there's nothing we can do."
Nothing? There's no one around with a master key or anything?
I explain the situation to her. I explain that with everyone out of the city climbing Mt. Fuji that we will have no place to stay until Monday. I explain that with my keys locked into the apartment that I have no place to stay until Monday, and I need to get home sometime within the afternoon. I do all of this while impersonating my friend and referring to myself in the third person.
"Isn't there anything you can do?" I beg her.
W: "Let me check and call you back."
Me: "Oh thank you. But please call to this number, and not the number you have listed for me. I'm on my friend's phone right now; mine's about to go dead."
W: "Okay!"
Act VII: Someone? Anyone? Ferris
I hang up. Mizzy still has not answered the text. We try to think of people who might be with Keddie in Tokyo. A name is dredged up. Unfortunately, this individual is notorious for never, ever, under pain of death and loss of limb, charging his phone.
I dial him. His phone is dead.
I text several other people, trying to get the phone number of a third person who may be with him in Tokyo. None of them know, but they give me the numbers of other people who might know. Those people all happen to be climbing Fuji. It's not likely that I'll get through to any of them.
The woman calls back. She calls my friend's nearly dead phone, and not mine. Of course.
W: "Sorry! There's nothing we can do for you."
Me: "You've got to be kidding! Isn't there anything else you can think of? Anything we could try?"
Intermission: Maybe the realtor has a master key
W: "Well…who did you arrange the rental through?"
"You mean the realtor?" I ask.
W: "Yes. When you rented the apartment, what realtor did you go through?"
Me: "I'm an ALT. This apartment was rented for me by the city; I had nothing to do with the choice. In fact, it was rented well over a decade ago. I have no idea who the realtor is. The city hall and local Board of Education take care of this; I had nothing to do with it." (And please remember that I am impersonating my friend all the while.)
W: "Well, how about calling city hall and finding out?"
Me: "Sure. I'll get right on that."
Act VIII: Keddie's does have a key. (Apartment: 1 Us: 0)
We walk down to Keddie's apartment. I squish my hand into his mailbox, his mail drop, and scout the utility boxes near his apartment, hoping against hope that his spare is hidden somewhere nearby. It isn't.
We head back to my friend's place, are assailed by a crazy old Japanese woman, then hit upon the idea of visiting local hotels in search of a pay phone-charger. We can't find one.
Second Intermission: Anyone feel like taking this call? Anyone? Ferris?
I call my friend's supervisor, in the hopes that she might have a secret spare key. The supervisor doesn't answer. I call Chargeless in Tokyo again. His phone does kicks straight into battery-is-dead voicemail mode.
It's Saturday, so city hall and my friend's school are closed; it isn't likely that they will be anyone there to help us figure out who the hell the landlord is.
And honestly, if the landlord's office doesn't have a master key, nor know what landlord's they've used (and are unwilling to make the effort to, you know, look), it isn't likely that the bloody realtor can do anything.
I call the woman back.
Act IX: Maybe Mystery Christmas Woman (Reprise)
Me: "I called the realtors back. It doesn't seem as if they could do anything."
She puts me on hold. What Child is This plays in the background.
W: "Oh, well. I suppose it can't be helped. I'll send someone over. But it will be 5pm at the earliest before he makes it there."
I'm a little irked by the wait, and by the why the bloody hell did you not just send someone over when I first called hours ago factor, but I manage to remain cordial on the phone.
We decide to walk across the city to its biggest, classiest hotel and see if we can't get a charger there. It may be possible to get Keddie's key from Mizzy before 5pm if we have a phone she can contact us with. Of course, there's no charger at the classy hotel.
It's blazing hot and we're both sunburned and suffering from the heat.
I finally convince my friend to buy a charger from the convenience store. We spend a good five to ten minutes trying to find one compatible with her phone. Once a charger is secured my friend attempts to call her supervisor from her own phone. Maybe we'll get her on the line if she sees a familiar number pop up.
But alas, no luck, so we head on down to a local coffee shop to pass the time with the rest of our cash.
We sit down and order our drinks. My friend's phone rings. It's the woman. "Our man will be there shortly," she tells me.
"What, now?" I gasp.
In which there is a locksmith, but still no key.
I move a lot faster than my friend, so I charge the 2 kilometers through the heat back to her apartment. She promises to save my drink for me. Once there, I realize I have no idea who I'm looking for, and as the woman has refused, after multiple requests, to call my phone, I'll have no idea when they do show up.
I call my friend and tell her to let me know if she gets any calls. Then I settle in to wait. For half an hour. In the sun and heat. I check my cell phone billing record to pass the time. I've managed to ring up over $42.00 worth of calls in the last two hours.
Finally, I take to riding the elevator up and down, hoping to catch the dude between the parking lot and her fifth-floor apartment. He finally shows up.
It isn't anyone associated with the building. It's a locksmith. One wonders what kind of craptastic landlord does not keep a master key for his properties lying around within easy reach, but whatever. (I'd guess it's most likely the same sort of landlord who doesn't post the super's number, or even put it within easy reach of his emergency line employees. But that's just a wild stab in the dark here…)
The guy sets to picking the lock.
Lock: 1 Locksmith: 0
Twenty minutes later he asks, "Is it okay if I break this?"
Me: "What, the lock?"
L: "Yeah."
I call my friend. "How much will it cost?" she asks.
I relay this question. "Oh, don't worry. And I can have a new lock put in right away."
I give him the okay. It takes another twenty-five minutes to break the lock. He actually has to drill it out with a Black 'n Decker power drill. He's halfway finished when the battery dies.
Maybe your coworker has a battery
He calls a coworker. "Help! I'm trying to drill out this lock, but it refuses to break, and I've used up my battery charge. Can you bring me a new one?"
The coworker apparently can't. So our gentle locksmith goes downstairs to charge it in a vending machine outlet or his car. I wait.
He comes back up, finishes the process and puts a new lock in. I impress upon him the need to make sure that this lock is not self-locking. He does.
I grab my own house keys from the apartment and trek the two kilometers back to the coffee house, where my now not-so-icy iced latte awaits me. Then, five hours after the start of this ordeal, it's time to hop on the train and head home. But not before Chargeless manages to get his phone charged up and call us back.
Then my friend and I are subjected to a thoroughly unpleasant interlude with a thoroughly racist Japanese man before I make it back to the station.
Epilogue: In which the supervisor suggests using a key
I've been on the train for an hour when supervisor finally calls my friend back.
"What's the matter?" she apparently asked.
My friend told her.
"Well, why didn't you just use the key to get back in?" was her supervisor's apparent response. My friend attempted to explain the situation several times, only to be met with, "Well, why didn't you just use your key?" before apparently telling the supervisor.
"Yeah, I did use the key. Well, I was just calling to hope you have a nice weekend!"
Which the supervisor apparently accepted without question.
(>.<);;;;;;;
That will be all.
Ah, let's talk about my most recent weekend fiasco, shall we?
I headed back into the Oaks on Friday afternoon for a night of Euchre and EDM without having to worry about the insanely inconvenient train times thanks to a friend who invited me to crash at her place. In fact, I actually tuckered out an hour before she did (thanks, no doubt, to all the dancing I did), so she gave me and another friend the keys to her place, we went back, and went to sleep.
I woke up bright and early the next morning and took a nice long walk to my hair stylists and got a much-needed cut. My friends were just waking up as I started the walk back, so I agreed to meet them at the apartment building.
Act I: I thought maybe you had the key.
"Hey!" chirped my friend as I met them outside the elevator. "You don't by any chance have my keys on you, do you?"
Nope.
Her: "Oh, well then I guess we're locked out of my place."
My friend's apartment has an automatic lock on the door. Shut it and you're shut out.
Me: "Well, where's your spare key? You know, the one you keep in your …?"
Her: "Oh, I let Keddie borrow that two weeks ago. He keeps saying he'll give it back, but he hasn't. He's in Tokyo this week anyway."
Me: "Why not call him?"
Her: "I can't. He spilled chuhai on his phone last week."
Act II: Maybe Mizzy has the key.
We head to an Indian restaurant for lunch.
Her: "I know. I'll call his girlfriend, and she can let us into his place to get the key. She may even know where it is."
A brief interval passes.
Her: "Hey, does anyone know the girlfriend's number?"
No one does. Someone suggests calling a mutual friend and getting the number from her. My friend does. She's on the phone for a long time.
Her: "That was weird. Satomi won't give me the number and she really didn't want to tell me why. I guess Mizzy's family is having some sort of memorial service or something. I had to spell the entire situation out to her before she even agreed to give me Mizzy's text."
Cue much speculation about the nature of the memorial service. I personally don't think anyone had died recently; we would have heard about it had there been a death in the family, and as Buddhist memorials are held at regular intervals up to the 100th anniversary of someone's death it's likely this was just a routine thing.
Finally, Satomi comes through with the text. But there is a problem. My friend's phone is running on low batteries. We all cross our fingers that Mizzy responds soon.
I suggest just heading back to the apartment and calling the landlord or superintendent. Which we do.
Surely, the landlord has a master key.
The number is posted all over the ground floor, clearly labeled "For Emergencies, Call xxx-xxxx" in large, colorful, hard-to-miss kanji. I call and explain the situation.
"Um," says the man on the other end. "This is the emergency line. You need to talk to the landlord. I can't help you."
Me: "Can you give me the number please? This is the only number anywhere on the building."
Man: "I have no idea. You'll need to call this number for it."
He gives me a three-digit number. I dial it.
Maybe the nation at large can help you.
It turns out that the number is the national telephone directory service.
"I'm sorry," says the man on the other end. "We don't have any numbers for your landlord registered with us."
It's at this point that I begin to wonder why on earth there's a better chance that a nationwide information service would have the landlord's number over the landlord's own local emergency line. But it's still early in this play and I don't want to start ::headwalling:: just yet.
So I call the emergency line back.
Act V: What sort of landlord doesn't have a master key?
Me: "They don't know the number."
Man: "Oh. Well, can you wait until the weekend's over?"
Me: "No."
Man: "Well, there really isn't anything I can do."
Wondering exactly what the emergency line does if they don't know anything about master keys or even the landlord's phone number, I impress upon him the urgency of the situation.
Act VI: Maybe Mystery Christmas Woman has a key.
I am given another number to call, this one for somebody's cell phone.
I explain the situation again, all the while pretending to be my friend, because explaining that I am a friend of the person who's been locked out, and not the friend herself, would break the brains of most Japanese.
I am getting quite good at reciting my friend's phone number and address.
The woman asks me, "Have you called the emergency number?"
Yes.
W: "Oh, well. Please hold."
I sit on hold for several minutes. Silent Night plays in the background.
The woman gets back on the line. "Sorry, there's nothing we can do."
Nothing? There's no one around with a master key or anything?
I explain the situation to her. I explain that with everyone out of the city climbing Mt. Fuji that we will have no place to stay until Monday. I explain that with my keys locked into the apartment that I have no place to stay until Monday, and I need to get home sometime within the afternoon. I do all of this while impersonating my friend and referring to myself in the third person.
"Isn't there anything you can do?" I beg her.
W: "Let me check and call you back."
Me: "Oh thank you. But please call to this number, and not the number you have listed for me. I'm on my friend's phone right now; mine's about to go dead."
W: "Okay!"
Act VII: Someone? Anyone? Ferris
I hang up. Mizzy still has not answered the text. We try to think of people who might be with Keddie in Tokyo. A name is dredged up. Unfortunately, this individual is notorious for never, ever, under pain of death and loss of limb, charging his phone.
I dial him. His phone is dead.
I text several other people, trying to get the phone number of a third person who may be with him in Tokyo. None of them know, but they give me the numbers of other people who might know. Those people all happen to be climbing Fuji. It's not likely that I'll get through to any of them.
The woman calls back. She calls my friend's nearly dead phone, and not mine. Of course.
W: "Sorry! There's nothing we can do for you."
Me: "You've got to be kidding! Isn't there anything else you can think of? Anything we could try?"
Intermission: Maybe the realtor has a master key
W: "Well…who did you arrange the rental through?"
"You mean the realtor?" I ask.
W: "Yes. When you rented the apartment, what realtor did you go through?"
Me: "I'm an ALT. This apartment was rented for me by the city; I had nothing to do with the choice. In fact, it was rented well over a decade ago. I have no idea who the realtor is. The city hall and local Board of Education take care of this; I had nothing to do with it." (And please remember that I am impersonating my friend all the while.)
W: "Well, how about calling city hall and finding out?"
Me: "Sure. I'll get right on that."
Act VIII: Keddie's does have a key. (Apartment: 1 Us: 0)
We walk down to Keddie's apartment. I squish my hand into his mailbox, his mail drop, and scout the utility boxes near his apartment, hoping against hope that his spare is hidden somewhere nearby. It isn't.
We head back to my friend's place, are assailed by a crazy old Japanese woman, then hit upon the idea of visiting local hotels in search of a pay phone-charger. We can't find one.
Second Intermission: Anyone feel like taking this call? Anyone? Ferris?
I call my friend's supervisor, in the hopes that she might have a secret spare key. The supervisor doesn't answer. I call Chargeless in Tokyo again. His phone does kicks straight into battery-is-dead voicemail mode.
It's Saturday, so city hall and my friend's school are closed; it isn't likely that they will be anyone there to help us figure out who the hell the landlord is.
And honestly, if the landlord's office doesn't have a master key, nor know what landlord's they've used (and are unwilling to make the effort to, you know, look), it isn't likely that the bloody realtor can do anything.
I call the woman back.
Act IX: Maybe Mystery Christmas Woman (Reprise)
Me: "I called the realtors back. It doesn't seem as if they could do anything."
She puts me on hold. What Child is This plays in the background.
W: "Oh, well. I suppose it can't be helped. I'll send someone over. But it will be 5pm at the earliest before he makes it there."
I'm a little irked by the wait, and by the why the bloody hell did you not just send someone over when I first called hours ago factor, but I manage to remain cordial on the phone.
We decide to walk across the city to its biggest, classiest hotel and see if we can't get a charger there. It may be possible to get Keddie's key from Mizzy before 5pm if we have a phone she can contact us with. Of course, there's no charger at the classy hotel.
It's blazing hot and we're both sunburned and suffering from the heat.
I finally convince my friend to buy a charger from the convenience store. We spend a good five to ten minutes trying to find one compatible with her phone. Once a charger is secured my friend attempts to call her supervisor from her own phone. Maybe we'll get her on the line if she sees a familiar number pop up.
But alas, no luck, so we head on down to a local coffee shop to pass the time with the rest of our cash.
We sit down and order our drinks. My friend's phone rings. It's the woman. "Our man will be there shortly," she tells me.
"What, now?" I gasp.
In which there is a locksmith, but still no key.
I move a lot faster than my friend, so I charge the 2 kilometers through the heat back to her apartment. She promises to save my drink for me. Once there, I realize I have no idea who I'm looking for, and as the woman has refused, after multiple requests, to call my phone, I'll have no idea when they do show up.
I call my friend and tell her to let me know if she gets any calls. Then I settle in to wait. For half an hour. In the sun and heat. I check my cell phone billing record to pass the time. I've managed to ring up over $42.00 worth of calls in the last two hours.
Finally, I take to riding the elevator up and down, hoping to catch the dude between the parking lot and her fifth-floor apartment. He finally shows up.
It isn't anyone associated with the building. It's a locksmith. One wonders what kind of craptastic landlord does not keep a master key for his properties lying around within easy reach, but whatever. (I'd guess it's most likely the same sort of landlord who doesn't post the super's number, or even put it within easy reach of his emergency line employees. But that's just a wild stab in the dark here…)
The guy sets to picking the lock.
Lock: 1 Locksmith: 0
Twenty minutes later he asks, "Is it okay if I break this?"
Me: "What, the lock?"
L: "Yeah."
I call my friend. "How much will it cost?" she asks.
I relay this question. "Oh, don't worry. And I can have a new lock put in right away."
I give him the okay. It takes another twenty-five minutes to break the lock. He actually has to drill it out with a Black 'n Decker power drill. He's halfway finished when the battery dies.
Maybe your coworker has a battery
He calls a coworker. "Help! I'm trying to drill out this lock, but it refuses to break, and I've used up my battery charge. Can you bring me a new one?"
The coworker apparently can't. So our gentle locksmith goes downstairs to charge it in a vending machine outlet or his car. I wait.
He comes back up, finishes the process and puts a new lock in. I impress upon him the need to make sure that this lock is not self-locking. He does.
I grab my own house keys from the apartment and trek the two kilometers back to the coffee house, where my now not-so-icy iced latte awaits me. Then, five hours after the start of this ordeal, it's time to hop on the train and head home. But not before Chargeless manages to get his phone charged up and call us back.
Then my friend and I are subjected to a thoroughly unpleasant interlude with a thoroughly racist Japanese man before I make it back to the station.
Epilogue: In which the supervisor suggests using a key
I've been on the train for an hour when supervisor finally calls my friend back.
"What's the matter?" she apparently asked.
My friend told her.
"Well, why didn't you just use the key to get back in?" was her supervisor's apparent response. My friend attempted to explain the situation several times, only to be met with, "Well, why didn't you just use your key?" before apparently telling the supervisor.
"Yeah, I did use the key. Well, I was just calling to hope you have a nice weekend!"
Which the supervisor apparently accepted without question.
(>.<);;;;;;;
That will be all.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2005-08-29 12:25 pm (UTC)"Use your key." "I don't have a key." "Well why not just use your key?"
WTF?
no subject
on 2005-08-30 12:33 am (UTC)Logic and lateral thinking? Not strong points over here.
no subject
on 2005-08-30 03:04 am (UTC)no subject
on 2005-08-29 01:14 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-08-30 12:31 am (UTC)no subject
on 2005-08-29 01:17 pm (UTC)I must applaud your playwriting skills.... ;-) boy, you just coldn't make up some of this stuff!! It's too.....brain-crazing LOL
Hope your week goes better!
no subject
on 2005-08-30 12:30 am (UTC)no subject
on 2005-08-30 07:41 am (UTC)