Readus Interruptus

by

Lauren Roberts

I am still trembling—and making a lot of errors in my typing due to it—because I accidentally locked myself out of my house about two hours ago. As disasters go, getting locked out is not a particularly large one, and usually not one that would rate a column. But the combination of factors that has me still shaking has also affected my writing and my reading.

It started when I grabbed several hangers filled with hand washed laundry out of the bathroom in order to hang them on a clothesline outside my kitchen door. All of my cats are indoor-only felines, but Amara is always desperate to get out and uses every opportunity, however slim, to try. When I leave for brief periods I close the door with the keys hanging in the outside lock so I don’t have to watch for her but if, like today, I am just stepping out for a few seconds I close the door only to the frame. I don’t pull it into place.

This normally isn’t a problem, but I didn’t count on the wind which is blowing strongly today. Just as I turn to go in, the door suddenly opens about six inches then slams shut. My keys are inside, and I am outside, now uncomfortably aware that I am un-showered, wearing a nightshirt and nothing else.  

Fortunately I am on the back porch so nothing more than slight annoyance appears as I realize I am going to have to go to the car to get the extra set of keys I keep there for times like this. I open the garage, the car and the coin box where I store them. No keys. Hmm. Oh, that’s right. For security I had moved them to the map compartment in the trunk; they’re hidden under the folded maps.

Uh, no, they aren’t.

Nooooooo. I actually hear a kind of desperate guttural cry erupt from my throat. My stomach lurches. It can’t be!

But it is. I now remember taking both sets of keys out of the car for some reason. Why? Probably because I had promised myself that I wouldn’t lock myself out again. I rip the maps out and frantically grope around the bottom of the empty compartment. Nothing. I throw the laundry soap box, bottled water and a few odds and ends out. Still nothing. OMG, I think, what am I going to do. Then, damn you, Amara!

I feel the panic set in at the same time I tell myself not to panic. I go back to the kitchen door, hoping that there is a tiny chance it is slightly open. Nope. That realization makes me beat on the door in futile anger and frustration. I tell myself again to calm down. I take a few deep breaths, and begin to assess the situation.

A fresh air fiend, I have my windows open almost all year round. But I realize, painfully, that they are all locked open with no way to open them further. (It’s good to know that no one else can break in but not so good for me at this moment.) Then I remember the kitchen window is the only one not locked. Can I get in through it? Gads, probably not. It’s high and it doesn’t have much wiggle room for me. But I have to try.

The kitchen window faces the street and other houses. It will be quite a show if I attempt this dressed as I am now. Then, with a sigh of relief, I remember the leggings I just brought outside. They are dripping wet, but at least they'll cover what they have to. I struggle mightily to get them on, then return to the garage for the ladder.

The ladder is heavy and awkward, but I wrestle it into place under the window, shoving it into the middle of dirty, scratchy bushes and piles of crunchy leaves. The screen is grimy with dust, and it is no easy job to try and remove it from its locked position. I climb up the unsteady ladder and open the window most of the way. Can I get in? Maybe, but with the sink immediately below the window the odds are I am going to end up hitting the floor head first and taking my undone dishes down with me. I reconsider my plan.

Then I see the two sets of keys that are hanging on a nail next to the kitchen door—across an expanse of floor about ten feet wide. Can I reach them with a long pole? Do we even have one that long? I return to the garage. Rake’s no good; too short. And then—ah ha! A picker, a tool for plucking fruit from the tops of trees is off to the side. It’s a very long pole with a series of shaped, plastic-coated wires on the end to facilitate grabbing. I even do a small dance in the garage. It’s my first feeling that maybe, just maybe I’ll be okay.

I get on the ladder again—very carefully as it has no stability in the deep bed of dead leaves—and lift the window. I scream at Amara to stay away and proceed to haul the picker up and through the window. This thing is heavy especially when jutting out rather than up. I take a few moments to rest. Then I lean in far enough that my breasts are inside the windowsill and push the picker forward in an attempt to reach the keys. No luck. Suppressing my re-rising alarm, I rest again. Then I take another step up the ladder, holding on to the windowsill. I try again. Alllllllllmost, but not quite. Impolite words are coming to my lips, albeit silently, since I am acutely aware of how this must look to my neighbors. I rest more. Then I gingerly move to the third step and lean about halfway in. The ladder wobbles away from house dangerously, but damnit, this is my only chance. I push the picker in again and frantically stab at the keys. Then suddenly, an “Ah Ha” moment. I have them! I start to pull the picker back, but it has gotten heavy again and it and the keys fall to the floor. A few choice words issue from my mouth before I calm myself. At least the keys are not far away now. I rest again, grateful that I keep my keys on an oversized “jailer’s ring” because I think I can get one of the hooks to catch them.

And, yes, I get them! Okay, I tell myself, carefully pull them toward you. (I do.) Don’t lose them now. (I don’t.) I am suddenly very happy.

Keys in hand, I again rest before pulling the picker through the window and tossing it on the grass. I throw the keys on the walkway in easy sight. Putting both hands on the windowsill, I gingerly step off the ladder, fold it up and toss it on top of the bushes. I step out of the bushes, feeling filthy but victorious. I return everything to its place, go inside and try not to think about killing Amara.

Reading has always been an activity that has been able to soothe me, to take any troubles away from me, but safe in the house I found myself unable to do it. I don’t know why, but writing about this has given me a sense of calm that my book was unable to do at first. Now, though, having gotten it out I am eyeing with desire the two books that I am currently reading—The Secret of Lost Things (which will be reviewed soon) and The River of Doubt, a recent birthday gift. Lost things. Doubt. Hmm. Now why do those suddenly seem like such appropriate topics? I think I will rejoin the world of the printed page where keys are not needed and doors never slam shut.


Almost since her childhood days of Mother Goose, Lauren has been giving her opinion on books to anyone who will listen. That “talent” eventually took her out of magazine writing and into book reviewing in 2000 for an online review site where she cut her teeth (as well as a few authors). Stints as book editor for her local newspaper and contributing editor to Booklist and Bookmarks magazines have reinforced her belief that she has interesting things to say about books. Lauren shares her home with several significant others including three cats, 750 bookmarks and nearly 1,000 books that, whether previously read or not, constitute her to-be-read stack. She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it