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locks designed for picking
Tuesday, June 28 2016
I went over to the brick mansion this morning in hopes of getting some work done in the hours before my remote shift for The Organization was to begin at noon. I'd grabbed the keys necessary to get into the front and basement doors, imagining that would be enough. But Gretchen had told the woman in 1R she could start moving in her stuff, and so that apartment was locked. That was one of the apartments I definitely needed to get into, and she'd even locked the door coming up from the basement. That had the weakest of all the locks securing her apartment, being one of those cheap brass doorknobs with a hole in the center of it. I've always understood that hole to indicate the lock on such doors is designed to be easily picked. This makes it a good choice for bathroom doors, behind which granny can fall (and not be able to get up) while wiping her ass or teenage Madison might need to be rescued from a heroin overdose. Though I've generally been successful at picking simple locks, for some reason I couldn't pick this one. My problem might have been due to the limited tools at my disposal; the best pick I could find was a moderately-long finishing nail, which I couldn't reach far with even when holding it with a pair of needle-nose pliers. Eventually I gave up and simply unscrewed the knob from the door; happily the bolts securing it went in from my side of the doors. Once in the apartment, I spent most of my time opening up windows that had been painted shut. Eventually I turned my attention to the toilet in 1R, the one leaking into the basement every time it flushes. I unbolted it from the floor, pushed it aside, and looked to see what was what. The disgusting wax ring, like a stepped-on donut made of ear wax, was there with a streamer of toilet paper stuck to it. I poked the toilet paper down the hole and chipped away as much of the wax as I could. It didn't look like the replacement wax ring that Gretchen had bought me (which was actually made of rubber) was going to fit. And I thought maybe the attachment ring itself might need to be replaced. That doesn't sound like much work, but somehow it occupied the two hours I had available.
As much as I resent the chores associated with the brick mansion, there's still a satisfaction that comes to doing a job that involves moving around, uncomfortable positions, and dirty hands that one can't get when working at a computer. I actually like the ritual of driving to the brick mansion, stopping along the way for a cup of Stewart's coffee and junky snackfood. And I like the serenely lackadaisical business of the street that the brick mansion is on, with its local-only traffic, workers hired to do yard work, cigarette-smoking white trash mothers, groups of black teenagers with low-hanging pants, and the occasional Hispanic families. There was some sort of rapid-response police vehicle parked on the street near the driveway when I arrived, though I don't know why.
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