I came home from work one evening and found a toothpick jammed in my lock. Then it happened again. Picture me outside my own house, wielding tweezers like some deranged locksmith.
I didn’t report it. I set a trap… because if someone wanted to play weird little games, I had one better.
After 14 hours of bedpans, vomit, and a guy who insisted his “friend” was the one who “accidentally” sat on a remote control, I dragged my scrub-wearing, caffeine-depleted body home. All I wanted was a hot shower, half a frozen pizza, and blessed silence.
Instead, I found myself standing in thirty-degree weather, staring at my front door like it had just slapped me… because my key wouldn’t go in.
I tried again. Nothing.
Wiggled it. Nope. I turned it upside down because sometimes keys are just moody like that.
Still nothing worked.
“Come on,” I muttered, jiggling harder. “I’ve had patients at the ER less difficult than you today.”
That’s when I noticed something small wedged deep in the keyhole. I squinted, using my phone flashlight to get a better look.
There was a toothpick jammed in the lock.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned, poking at it helplessly with my car key. I jiggled, cursed, even tried poking it out with a bobby pin. Nothing worked.
Fifteen minutes later, I was still standing there with frozen toes and a colorful vocabulary that would make my patients blush.
I gave up and called my brother.
“Danny?
It’s me. I’m locked out.”
“Again? Did you lose your keys at the hospital?
Because last time—”
“No, there’s a toothpick stuck in my lock.”
“What the hell? I’ll be right over.”
Ten minutes later, Danny’s rusted pickup rolled into my driveway. He hopped out wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that read “I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE.”
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a coat?”
“Shouldn’t you be inside your house?” he countered, brandishing a miniature toolkit like he was about to defuse a bomb.
I watched as he examined the lock, his breath forming little clouds in the cold air.
“Yep!
That’s a toothpick in there,” he said, fishing a pair of tweezers from his kit. “And it didn’t get there by accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone put it there… on purpose.” He worked silently for a few minutes, then triumphantly held up a tiny wooden splinter.
“There we go. Try it now.”
The key slid in smoothly and I sighed with relief.
“You think it was just kids?” I asked hopefully.
Danny shook his head. “Kids don’t have this kind of patience.