CC mentioned to me on our way in to work the other day that I needed to put a post up explaining myself and my absence. As if somehow I were unaware that I haven’t posted on this blog, Facebook and Twitter for like three weeks now.
He said I needed to let the people who follow my blog know what’s going on. Apparently both of you are worried about me.
So here’s a story:
I go in to the city early one day to hit a yoga class before work. I drop my bags at my work area and go into the bathroom. Remember that I work in a theater.
The bathroom is in the basement and is, as my sister would call it, a one-butt bathroom. I d0 what I need to do, wash up and go to leave. I grab the doorknob, pop the lock and turn.
The doorknob spins in my hand. Loosely. Ineffectively. I would go so far as to call it impotent and flaccid, even though it’s a doorknob. The doorknob isn’t doing a goddamn thing. The door is still closed, and, somehow, still locked, even with a freely spinning doorknob.
Okay, I think, no biggie. I’ve been locked in far worse bathrooms than this. Plus, I’m a stagehand. Oh, wait. All my tools are at my work area. Not in here with me. As is my cell phone. Crap.
So I dig around the bathroom and find. . . a roll of paper towels. That’s it. No pipe wrench. No random screwdriver. Not even a goddamn plunger.
I start yelling and banging on the door to try to get someone’s attention, because people are actually in the building even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. The only thing is that I’m in the basement. They’re on stage, rehearsing. Far, far away.
I may as well be on the moon.
And suddenly I’m pissed, you know? I get dinner made early, I arrange a babysitter early, I pay extra for early parking all to come in early and take this goddamn yoga class and now I’m stuck in the frickin’ bathroom? Are you kidding me?
I’ll be damned if some doorknob is going to steal my peace.
So I start kicking the crap out of the doorknob. It takes a little while, but eventually the doorframe bends, the knob breaks off and I am free and I have exactly five minutes to haul ass down 8th avenue to get to my yoga class.
I drop the pieces of the doorknob off at the stage door on my way out and tell our doorman, Gus, what happened, apologizing as sincerely and as fast as I can.
I make my yoga class.
When I come back I have to endure a rash of crap from lots of people for breaking the bathroom door and leaving.
House Head Carpenter: I don’t get it. I don’t understand how you were locked in. The doorknob still works.
Me: But it came off! Completely! That’s how I got out.
House Head Carpenter: The door’s bent now where you kicked it, but nothing’s wrong with the doorknob. Even though it broke off.
Me: Dude. I don’t know what to tell you. I was locked the hell in. For like twenty minutes.
House Head Carpenter: I’ll replace it, I’m just saying it still works. Don’t kick me.
None of this has anything to do with my absence from all things social media. But it does explain these:
The old doorknob is still on the door and sometimes I forget and try to lock it instead of using the latch.
Don’t let anybody steal your peace.