A Pat On My Own Back
Not really, it just made me laugh. Liz’s sister sent me an email forewarning me that her suitcase was probably permanently locked because the airport security Nazis had abused it mercilessly in their quest to find explosives hidden within. It’s one of those number locks where you twist the tumblers until you see your secret magic number and then you can pull out the retention pin. Her sister had said it might take pliers, wire cutters, maybe even pruning shears to break in and get her knickers for her.
I spoke with Liz on the phone a bit and she mentioned that the center tumbler was “a little loose.”
“Aha,” say I, the professional problem-solver and bicycle repairman, “It might have slipped!” I suggested that she slowly rotate the center tumbler while sliding the retention pin back and forth.
I put the pliers in the trunk, along with the wire cutters that were already permanently there, and went out to pick up a loaf a bread and some Vantage 100s to sustain her on this, her first day back.
A snow day, designated “dangerous” for travel, the world bicycle repairmen traverse without fear.
When I finally got to her place, she told me that my out-the-ass, I dunno, what the hell solution had actually worked. The slippery center cylinder had changed from a seven to a nine. I bravely summoned my alpha male façade and modestly laughed, but inside I was thinking, “I know a few secrets about locks and electricity, eh?”
Then she regaled me with Jordik tales and pictures of her native Yorkshire, abbeys, walls they call bars, and entire cities built with a Minster as their focal point – and I quickly realized that my modesty had some basis in reality. I am truly an ignorant fuck who can occasionally make a lucky guess.
3:11:14 PM 
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