In all my years of fumble and folly, I have locked myself out of many places: my car, my house, my office, even my bathroom. Today, however, I managed to lock myself in.
Preparing to leave Yang and Ling’s condominium late yesterday morning, it became evident that I had lost track of the house keys Yang passed me. One key is paired to the front door, the other key is paired to the iron gate clasped to the external frame encasing that door. Opening the front door from the inside is obviously not a problem. However, opening the locked iron gate without a key is a non-starter. Having left earlier in the morning for their respective workplaces, Yang and Ling took with them, quite naturally, the only remaining keys. I was trapped!
I never tire of explaining to friends the safety and security I experience in Singapore, often conjuring exaggerated circumstances under which, comparative to the US or elsewhere, I’d be a dead duck, yet in the assuring confines of Singapore one’s safety is practically guaranteed. But one thing is for sure: If you lose the spare set of house keys, they’ll lock your ass up.
With William Wallace’s last-breath cry of “Freedom!” reverberating through my bones, I faced, by means of my own stupidity, the not-so-proverbial rusty cage that imprisoned me and my people — except Irish, not Scottish. Just beyond the reach of my outstretched arms: my shoes, the elevator, the neighboring children’s bicycles . . . roti prata.
A stiff wave of panic enveloped me. Before the US consulate could return my phone call, Yang caught up with me online on MSN. We felt certain the house keys fell out of my pocket while riding in the front seat of the car the night before.
“Listen, buddy,” he wrote, “it doesn’t look like you’re getting out of there until Ling returns home from work. I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK,” I wrote.
“As you know, you have plenty of bak kwa there, and if you like go ahead and order McDonalds in, or a pizza. They should be able to stuff the food through the gate rungs.”
“I just might do that.”
“But, in the meantime . . . Look, I’ve read studies on incarceration.”
“Oh?” I replied in surprise.
“Yes, it’s very important for you to keep busy, or else you’ll rot away into nothing.”
“Is Ling returning home sometime within the next decade?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. But still, we should be proactive.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Yang hesitated. “I think the marble floors could use a mopping.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it. You’ll find the necessary supplies in the storage closet. While you’re doing that, I’ll contact the warden.”
“The warden? You mean the landlord, right?”
“Yes, I meant the landlord. . . . Bye for now.”
With Yang’s helpful advice in mind, I took to my task. He was right, I’d decided, it really is best to have a clean prison cell to inhabit. And the work helped quell the pity for the self and the pangs of hunger quaking throughout my body.
Not long after completing my task, Ling sent me a text message. I rushed to my notebook to give Yang the news.
“Yang,” I wrote, “Ling just texted me saying she found the keys in the car! They’d fallen out my pocket into the front passenger seat, just as I expected.”
“Great news, buddy,” he replied. “Did you mop the floor?”
“Yes, it looks fabulous.”
“Great. Ling should be there within the hour. Tell me, buddy, how do the windows look?”
“I’m logging off.”
Soon after Ling arrived home to free the incarcerated ang moh, carrying with her little Hannah, an armful of various food, and, of course, the spare keys.
“I have brought your rations,” she said, smiling. “Wait — have these floors been mopped?”
“Um, yes, Yang thought it would be good if—“
“Oh! Yang is clever one. This happens every time!”
“What, you mean this has happened before?” I asked.
She remained silent and set about preparing Hannah’s afternoon bath. I chose to leave well enough alone, for clemency had been grant and there was food to be eaten in the kitchen. And after all, I had learned an important life lesson today: To get the most out of Singapore’s tourism catchphrase, “Uniquely Singapore,” one need but remember the spare house keys.
Hilarious retelling, bud.:) Though the funniest part of the story was that throughout your incarceration, there *was* a spare bunch of keys in the house after all.:)
hilarious!!! ROFL!!!!
“…, there *was* a spare bunch of keys in the house after all…” and you never once told him during the time of his imprisonment?? :D on the comfort side, at least it was only imprisonment for half a day…
I did tell Matt to look there during his imprisonment – but it slipped his mind.:)
Truth to tell, I chowed down on bak kwa and sipped on iced tea. Obviously, incarceration in Singapore, or at least Yang and Ling’s place, is so pleasant that one doesn’t immediately attempt to spring free. : )