Emily’s Continued Adventures in Breaking and Entering

[Wherein I provide a slightly amusing story and a couple of thoroughly horrible puns, one entirely unintentional.]

I must admit, I’m quite proud of my lock-picking track record. The first real success I had in the field came during the early winter of my senior year of college, when I used a dining hall swipe card (equivalent in size and shape to a credit card, but much more worthless) to unlock a bathroom in which a tipsy gentleman had trapped himself. In my second triumph, recorded elsewhere, a pair of travel tweezers saved a forgetful girl from a night of sleeping/weeping on the cold, hard bathroom floor. These two experiences, in my opinion, indicate a real knack for breaking and entering (or, as the case may be, exiting). Recently, this skill was tested once again. At stake this time? Access to Bessie’s indoor sleeping quarters.

My garage is truly a lovely location; small and sparse, it sits at the back of the yard, a narrow, squat rectangle separating green grass from alley gravel. Two cars barely fit inside, but fit they do, and I gladly endure a few minutes of jockeying for proper garage position in order to lessen the amount of time I spend scraping layers of ice from my windshield. The garage door lifts automatically, its mechanism controlled by one button on the wall of the garage itself and one on each of two garage door openers Ali and I were given on move-in day. Since Bessie has a special compartment for such a device, I got the main opener, a fat, three-button remote complete with Velcro backing; Ali took the single-button, clip-to-the-visor opener. Unfortunately for me, all the buttons in the world are useless if the opener simply doesn’t work.

On what turned out to be a particularly sad late fall day, I drove up to the garage; snow was predicted, so it seemed time to tuck Bessie inside for the night. Nearing our backyard, I hit the largest button on my garage door opener and peered at the door in anticipation. To my utter horror, I saw not a single hint of movement. I tried pushing the button harder, to no avail. I tried hitting the buttons in combination. No luck. Finally, in desperation, I actually tried changing the unit’s battery. Still nothing.

Not to be foiled by the whims of technology, I devised a wonderful solution: every time I neared the house, I called Ali. Perfect – my own human garage door opener. Of course, this only lasted about a day. “I’ll open it on one condition: you go get your remote fixed tomorrow,” said Ali, taking my call from the warmth of the house.

“Like I have time to do that!” I huffed. Pulling into the alley a few minutes later, I vowed to find an alternate way of getting into the garage. I already had a plan, you see. Our yard is surrounded by a tall wooden fence – not white picket, but close. The pale pine slats abut one another, their flat tops stretching perhaps six and a half feet into the air. A wide hinged panel is set in the middle of the fence, opening onto the alley. This gate is latched and padlocked, and I’ve only tried to open it once (at which point it promptly fell off its hinges and hung askew until I forced it back into place). My most excellent plan hinged (HAHAHA) on the faultiness of said hinges.

I parked Bessie in the middle of the alley, being sure to leave her lights on so that no unsuspecting neighbor would think that the car had been deserted. Looking around to determine that no one was observing my thoroughly sketchy behavior, I approached the gate and tugged on the hinged side… and noted a distinct lack of reciprocal movement. Despite being unhinged, the gate remained tightly closed.

My well-thought-out plan had failed, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. “I suppose I could go around to the front of the house, get into the garage through the yard, and open it from inside,” I thought, staring forlornly at the uncooperative gate. But, my friends, do you think that is what I did? Of course not! Instead, I began tramping around outside the fence, peering along property lines in search of any hint of a loose board or semi-wide gap. I must admit, I was about to give up when my salvation came in the form of half a dozen pointed stakes.

There is perhaps a meter of space between the leftmost wall of the garage and the fence separating our property from that of the family next door. The former owners must not have felt that six and a half foot security was necessary here; instead, set back from the alley and tucked well behind a low wooden storage shed, a pseudo-fence exists. Its pointed stakes, covered over by leafless vines, only reach waist height thanks to the surrounding lofty snowdrifts. Waist height, in case you were wondering, is the perfect height for scaling.

Thankful for the boots on my feet, I traipsed through the half-frozen drifts and clambered up on top of the stakes, balancing my feet on two wooden points while steadying myself against the edge of the taller fence. I carefully made sure that neither foot was entangled in vineage, then proceeded to launch myself toward the drifts within the confines of the yard. Once safely on the ground, I frolicked into the garage, pushed the button, and watched elatedly as the door slowly opened to reveal the long-suffering, patiently-waiting Bessie. And there was much rejoicing in the head of Emily.

This process has now become integrated into my everyday routine. I’ve done it in rain, in front of my neighbor, in pointy-toed boots, in the dark, and in high-heeled shoes without socks (that last one was a weensy tad cold). I’m a little worried about what will happen when the snow melts, but I guess we’ll, uh, scale that stake*-ridden fence when we come to it.

*Kindly refer to the first paragraph, penultimate sentence. (HAHAHA... [trailing off into awkward silence].)