THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, January 5, 1996 TAG: 9601030197
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 88 lines
I've always prided myself on the fact that I'm very mechanically minded. It's a trait I inherited from my mother.
Between us we can diagnose most engine noises at 40 car lengths; take an old-fashioned typewriter apart, clean it and put it back together; repair a vacuum cleaner with rubber bands and paper clips and tinker with the stickiest of drawers until they glide like Kerrigan on an Olympic rink.
My mother, however, can do one thing I can't. She can go one on one with a balky lock and win out every time.
When I'm faced with a key that won't turn, I have this primitive instinct to run back to a lockless cave, crouch in a corner and whimper until the man of the place pats my head, says ``There, there, don't fret,'' then picks up his club and goes out to cure the problem.
Or something like that.
I have no rational explanation for such a reaction - other than to guess that it has something to do with wild animals, strong men and basic safety. What I do know is this: Trouble with a lock will absolutely send me running for help.
Which is why, when neither of my two sets of car keys would work the door lock in my Mercury recently, I went straight to a telephone and called home for help.
It was about 7 on a cold, dreary evening a couple of weeks before Christmas. I had been out covering a story and stopped at a neighborhood restaurant to pick up some carry-out for dinner.
When I got back to my car, hot garlic eggplant and house special lo mein in hand, the key on my ring wouldn't go into the lock. Neither would the spare key that I carry with me.
Given my limitations, I did the only sensible thing. I went back into the restaurant and called Bill. In the meantime, the restaurant manager went out to see if he could be of any help.
When Bill arrived a few minutes later the three of us, armed with three separate sets of keys, circled the car trying locks.
``I could understand if it was one door lock or one key,'' Bill mused, ``but for the life of me I can't figure out why it's both doors, the trunk and all of the keys.''
The restaurant manager agreed.
By that point I didn't care. I knew, with my track record, that I could try keys all night and no door would open.
Furthermore, I was being overcome by the cold, the damp and the fragrance of the food. All I wanted was a dry cave, a warm fire and a nice hot dinner.
``My eggplant's getting cold. I want to go home,'' I whimpered. My caveman agreed. So did the manager, who was feeling the chill himself by that time.
``We might as well go back to the house, get some supper, then call a locksmith,'' Bill said. ``And if the locksmith can't get in, we'll call Triple A to have the car towed to the dealer,'' he added.
Out of habit Bill made one last circle of the car, trying door handles to make sure all were locked.
``Oh, for Pete's sake,'' he said as he took a closer look at the passenger side. ``On top of everything else, someone scraped the whole length of the car.''
Sure enough, there was a half inch wide scratch leading from the rear of the front fender almost to the tail light.
I whimpered some more.
``And my brief case and my story notes are on the front seat,'' I told Bill. ``I'm going to need both of them first thing in the morning.''
``Are you sure?'' he asked, ``all I see on the front seat are your jacket and your red lunch bag.''
``My jacket isn't in there,'' I told him, ``I'm wearing it. And I don't own a red lunch bag.''
We looked at each other. And beyond.
All of a sudden, the truth hit us.
For close to half an hour, three of us had been attempting to get into someone else's nearly identical car.
All the while, mine had been sitting safely two parking spaces away.
The manager smiled broadly and went back to the warmth of his restaurant. Bill and I took our two vehicles and our now cold dinner and went home.
``I wonder,'' Bill mused as I reheated the eggplant and noodles, ``what the other driver would have said if she had come out and found a locksmith working on her car.''
``I don't know,'' I told him, thinking to myself that it was a good thing I hadn't had Mother with me. She doesn't share my fear of locks. I've never known her to pick one, but I'll bet with her mechanical knowledge and a couple of paper clips she'd have had us in that other car in no time at all. by CNB