Break In

My ex-wife used to do this thing. Every night as we were laying down to bed, she would ask me if I locked the door. Locking the door was my responsibility. Our relationship was pretty egalitarian. We didn’t really have specific jobs. If the dishes needed washing — one of us would wash them. If the garbage needed taking out, one of us would take it out. There were a couple of exceptions — one was gift wrapping. My ex-wife did all the gift wrapping and with good reason. There was something about the physics of gift wrapping that escaped me. If you’ve received a present from me since my divorce, you know what I’m talking about. It’s all wadded up paper and scotch tape. The other exception was the locking the door thing. My ex was more than capable of locking the door. And she would do it on any number of occasions — just not before bed. For some reason, that was my job. As the man of the family, it was my responsibility to make sure the homestead was secure before we turned in for the night. I was okay with it. It felt masculine somehow. So, every night as we settled into bed, she’d ask, “Did you lock the door?” And I’d say, “Yes.” And that was all she needed to be able to drift off to sleep — a little assurance that I had done my job and the world was safely locked out of our apartment.

One particular night, a Thursday I recall, we had just gone to bed and like clockwork, my wife ask me, “Did you lock the door?” And like clockwork, I replied back to her, “Yep.” But here’s the thing — even though I said, “yep” I really didn’t stop to think if I’d locked it or not. I answered instinctively. Just like I assume that I had instinctively locked the door the same way I always do.

A little while later, I was awakened by a commotion. Namely my ex-wife shooting straight up in bed, proclaiming she’d just heard the front door open. I tried hard to go back to sleep. I wasn’t being a jerk, I promise. And it’s not that I find break-ins boring. It’s just that I didn’t really believe my wife had heard the front door open. See, she had a history of hearing things in the middle of the night. In the eight years that I was married to her she had, on numerous occasions, sat straight up in bed and claimed to have heard opening doors, creaking floorboards, televisions coming on, people talking, birds flying around, cars crashing, ducks, can-openers, popcorn popping, sleigh bells, bowling pins being knocked over, llamas, and on one particularly odd night - A German oompa band. So as you can imagine, her sudden claim that she head a door opening sounded a little like crying wolf.

I was a good husband, though, after my ex insisted a second time that she’d heard the door open, I got up out of bed, bleary-eyed and sluggish to investigate. Well, not really investigate — because I was positive the front door hadn’t opened. I was simply doing a lap around the apartment to make her feel better.
If I’d been more awake I would have noticed a faint glow in the hallway that shouldn’t have been there. The living room light was on. I hadn’t left the living room light on. But, sleepy as I was, this kind of detail was lost on me.

Our apartment was small. By stepping out of the back bedroom into the hallway, I could see all the way to the front door. My eyes were only half open my first foot hit the carpet of the hallway. But they were completely open by the time my second foot touched down. My front door had indeed been opened. The gentleman who opened it was still standing in the doorway. We saw each other at exactly the same second. We both froze.

I always wondered what I’d do in a moment like that. You hear about how animals all have that flight or fight instinct. When confronted with danger they’ll either fight for their life or run for it. I say I’ve always wondered what I’d do in that moment — but actually, I’ve always assumed I would run. And run I did. But not away from the intruder. On the contrary, I ran right at him. Something took control of me and I ran at him screaming, “Get out of my house!” He ran out of our apartment like a shot. By the time I made it to the door I was suddenly faced with another decision — keep chasing him, or lock the door behind him and call the police. I decided that chasing him would be foolish. I had gotten him out of my apartment. That was enough for now. So, I slammed the door and locked it.

In our bedroom, my wife was screaming. I couldn’t hear her, though, because my heart was pounding in my ears. I was filled with adrenaline. Every nerve-ending was on fire. I’ve never felt more alive in my life — or more like a man! I had just chased an intruder out of my apartment! I had protected my home from a vicious criminal! I was the man of the house! I was doing it!

As I leaned against my front door, out of breath and reveling in boiling testosterone, I happened to look down and notice that I was completely naked.
I like to think that it was dark enough in my apartment that the intruder didn’t notice — that the reason he ran from me was because he was intimidated by my speed and forceful tone. The more likely truth, though, was that in the midst of a routine burglary he suddenly found himself being charged by a full-grown, naked man, screaming like a lunatic and decided to bolt

We called the police the next morning. Our lock hadn’t been forced at all. I had forgotten to lock it. I felt terrible. The police thought it was strange that the man turned on the light. There was some speculation that maybe it wasn’t a break-in at all, but rather some poor drunk man stumbling home to an apartment complex full of identical apartments and by sheer coincidence, walking into our unlocked home, thinking it was his. If that is indeed the case then hopefully that guy writes a newspaper column too. Because his story is even better than mine.