Locked Out of My Office With No Pants

Rachel in the plaza of the World Trade Center wearing no pants, New York City, 1997.

Last weekend I was working in my office, which I rent for cheap in a slightly crappy, mixed residential-commercial building.

It was the afternoon, when the sun beats down on my office and turns it into an oven. So I did what I always do: I took off my shoes and pants, and continued working that way. With the doors to the balcony wide open, at least a current of fresh air could enter the room. I almost felt like I was outdoors. It was fun.

Then came time for a snack break. I grabbed a bag of cherries I had in the fridge and headed towards the bathroom to wash them in the sink. Since the bathroom is right next to my office, I never have to worry about embarrassing encounters with the neighbors who live on the same floor, right across the hall.

I exited my office, being careful to keep the door wide open since it locks automatically when closed.

As I approached the bathroom door, I caught an unexpected movement in my peripheral vision: it was the sunlight disappearing. I felt a strong current of air. Whirling around in panic, I cried, “Oh nooooooo!”

It was too late: pushed by an air current coming from the open balcony door, the door slammed shut behind me with a loud WHOMP!

That’s door-speak for “Fuck YOU! HA-HA!”

There I stood in the hallway: in socks, a t-shirt, and underpants, holding a bag of cherries.

My goddamn keys were inside the office.

It was a Sunday, so I couldn’t ask the people who work in the office next door, who happen to share the balcony, to let me into my office that way.

Even worse: my cell phone was in the office. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Cesar has a set of keys to my office, but he is across the city from where I work. The thought of walking that distance in socks and with no pants was not inviting. Besides, I had no cell phone to call ahead, to make sure he’d be there to receive me.

I also had no money on me. All I had was a bag of cherries, and the last shreds of my dignity. The idea entered my mind of panhandling, pants-less, on the street for change to make the call at a pay phone, and I nearly wept.

The best option I could think of filled me with dread, but I had no other choice: I had to knock on the neighbors’ door.

The neighbors are a young, attractive couple with a year-old baby who’s always screaming. The woman is often frazzled, understandably, because she’s got a screaming baby to take care of 24 hours a day. Still, whenever I’ve encountered her, I’ve gotten the feeling that she dislikes me. No reason; there’s just an unpleasant vibe.

It doesn’t help that her husband is friendly to me. Overly friendly, if you know what I mean. He is one of those men who, besides being unusually handsome, can’t help but flirt with every woman he sees. A real charmer. So I’ve been figuring that, besides being exhausted and irritated with a new baby, his wife is probably a little insecure and jealous.

And here I am, about to knock on their door, wearing no pants. And holding my cherries.

TO BE CONTINUED!