The Professional

This summer I spent a couple of weeks with my family in Massachusetts. Though on most visits we pile into my mom’ car like a bunch of clowns, this year I decided to splurge on a rental. One morning, following a shopping trip to Barnes and Noble, I headed over to the car. After setting my iphone in the passenger seat of my rental car, locking the doors and organizing some bags in the trunk, I realized the keys to the rental were not in my hands, nor were they in my purse. Upon further investigation they were not on the ground, not visibly in the car and not back in the bookstore. Yes, that leaves one place only-securely shut in the trunk.

What’s a damsel in distress to do? Call her daddy, of course. So in I went to Barnes and Noble to borrow the phone, remember my own phone was locked tightly in the car. I asked my dad if he’d swing by Hertz and get me a spare key. Unfortunately, when I called Hertz they said they didn’t keep extra keys in the office, but I could use their roadside service. You know that service they offer you when you pick up your rental car, the one that will cost you more than you originally planned to spend, and the one that, if you are like me, you refuse, because you won’t need it anyway? Let’s cut to the chase, I didn’t get the driver road side assistance from Hertz, I don’t have AAA, and neither do my parents. I had an inkling that we had some sort of roadside service through our insurance company, but never cared much to jot that info down. So now I’ve called my dad, called Hertz, called their roadside assistance for a price check, but the words “up to $200 to break into your trunk if you didn't purchase our insurance,” gave me pause. My next call was to Mike who was 3,000 miles away (if Barnes and Noble is the next to file for bankruptcy it’s probably due to my long distance calls). I knew he would have the insurance info, but guess who wasn’t answering his phone.

I wandered out to the parking lot and saw a familiar white car approaching. It was my mom and my aunt in the front; and in the back seat, with an amused little smirk on her face was one of the most organized people I know-my daughter (the smile read this would never have happened if you invited me along). No offense to this trio, but I couldn’t help but wonder why my dad sent them and what help they were going to provide. Then I saw my mom’s phone glimmering in the sunlight. I borrowed it to call Mike again and this time he answered. He hung up to call the insurance company. Mom and Maddee frolicked into Starbucks without a care in the world, while Auntie Sue decided to stake out a car with a firefighter sticker in the back. “If he’s on the fire department, he’ll have a Slim Jim,” she declared knowingly through puffs on her Marlboros. As for me, I just leaned on the rental and waited.

I wasn’t standing there long when in rolled my dad with a wire snake in hand. He got out of his car, waved to my aunt (who was still on her mission to find the off duty firefighter) and got down to business. He proceeded to feed the wire through the driver side window trying to somehow grab the latch, unlock the door and then, of course, pop the trunk. If I thought it was a weak plan, my dad thought it genius. I kept my mouth shut. In no time a nicely dressed man with slicked back hair, too much cologne and a huge gold watch was by my dad’s side. “I think I can help you,” he assured my dad and put his hand out for my dad to hand over the snake. The two of them took turns working the wire. Though cooperating, they were more like adversaries than friends, each trying to prove to the other their skills in, well, in breaking locks I guess. My self-appointed job was to chime in every now and again about how this was actually a rental car and the fact that they were scratching the paint off the driver side door was not really all that helpful. They responded to my nagging by ignoring me entirely. After several minutes and a bloody knuckle, our new friend tossed the snake back to my dad, shrugged his shoulders and moved on.

As my dad continued to work the lock on his own, Maddee and mom came to report that Mike called on my mom’s phone. He wanted to let me know that someone was dispatched to help us, but they didn’t know how long it would take for help to arrive. Mike, wasn’t thinking and gave them my number-yes on my phone I had no access to-and they were going to call that phone when they were on their way. As I took in Mike’s message, I noticed an older gentleman approach my dad. This guy was all Townie with his white hair, blue eyes and thick, thick, Boston accent.* “Oh let me help yous,” he offered. I could envision him in the days of his youth, breaking locks and hotwiring cars to take on joyrides through the neighborhood. “Listen, let me run home and I’ll get a wire hangah. I helped some lady about a year back unlock her cah.” “Don’t bother,” answers my dad and just as I think he’s going to brush this guy off, he continues, “I brought a hanger, too, it’s in my Explorer.” My dad hands the guy the drain snake and heads to his Explorer. This guy works twice as well as the first guy in scraping paint off the door, but his accuracy at grabbing the latch is just as poor. It doesn’t take long before he bails, too.

Around this time my aunt leaves her post at the firefighter’s car and heads into Starbucks. She comes back to report that Mike has straightened out the phone number situation and that help should be here in about twenty minutes. I tried to call my dad off, but it’s as if the twenty minute window made him work twice as hard. And just as he hits his groove, another man approaches. I couldn’t help but wonder if Barnes and Noble parking lot was a secret meeting spot for recovering car thieves. This guy, in his early twenties, has a slim jim in his hand. My dad says something about “Never trust a guy who carries his own slim jim,” but steps aside, nonetheless. Like I said, each man that approaches is a genuine car thief in my active imagination, but this guy makes me think I’m not imagining a thing. “Okay, first thing we gutta do is find out if she [meaning the car] has side airbags.” I shrug my shoulders, “I don’t know it’s a rental.” He peers in the window for a moment and then looks at me, “Sorry, can’t do it. She’s got side airbags. If I hit the airbag release instead of the lock while I’m leaning over, the airbags are going to come up at me, break my neck and kill me.” I must have had a strange look on my face. “It happened to my buddy,” he casually stated as he put the slim jim in his back pocket, scoped out the parking lot and walked away.

Having had his share of excitement for the day, my dad packed in the wire snakes and hangers and went home for a nap. My mother and Madison went into Staples to do some shopping and my aunt sat on the curb outside of Barnes and Noble, keeping a vigil for that elusive firefighter. Soon a vehicle with the words Search and Rescue printed on the side pulled up. The driver with clipboard in hand approached me. With his icy green eyes and his tight shirt, this guy looked more like the lead singer of the next best boy band, than he did a locksmith. However, I am not joking when I say he had the car unlocked in under a minute. “Wow, that was fast,” I noted. “Well,” he replied with what I am sure was a wink, “I have had a lot of practice jimmying locks; after all, I’m a professional.”


*If you are not from the Greater Boston area, Please, I beg of you, do not attempt to read this passage aloud with a fake Boston accent. Thank you.