locked on the balcony

by m. werneburg, 2003

In December of 2003, I was offered a job. The money was right (thanks to a bit of negotiating), the work was going to be reasonably interesting, and the company seemed like it might be a good one. The only problem was that it meant moving to another province, which was going to bugger things up in my relationship with my girlfriend.

So I did what I usually do in such circumstances. I made myself busy.

First I washed an Afghan that my mother had made for me two years previously. From the colour of the water that churned out of it as I squashed it in some water-and-detergent in the bathtub, I'd say that the washing was long overdue. Good thing I had a crisis to force the matter.

The amount of filth coming out of it gave me an idea. I pulled off my woollen sweater, grabbed a second sweater from my bedroom, and washed those both as well. They were filthy as well, it turned out. Not just with dirt—the darker, denser-knit sweater seemed to have absorbed a lot of what looked like smoke, as well. A tip for bachelors out there—just because you can't wash your sweater in the machine doesn't mean you should let it go four years without a washing.

Anyhoo, I was still antsy. So I decided to wash my apartment's windows. I got my bucket and my squeegee and some dish detergent—my mum pointed out that the best way to fight streaks on windows was by using the one product above all that's designed to clean without streaks—and headed out onto the balcony. As I did so, I moved the sliding door over so I could wash it, too.

Normally, this is no problem. But this door is one of those fancy European-styled things which close partway, then swing in and attach at the bottom so that the top remains open. This all happens in one motion. The next step is where the thing actually closes, but this requires a twist of the doorhandle.

Obviously, I wasn't able to manipulate the door handle from outside, so I was safe from the thing closing. But I'd used just enough momentum to get the bottom of the door to swing shut. With a shouted "No! No!" I jiggled the door and realized—I'd have to pull the door handle down just a tick to get the thing to fully open. And I couldn't reach the damn thing.

So I washed the windows and gave myself some time to think. Then, with the windows washed and my finger thoroughly chilled in the 0^oC weather, I tried all of the solutions I'd come upon. Ten minutes and several scraped knuckles, one badly scraped squeegee, and and one slightly scraped door frame later, and I was no further along.

So I tried my strange, unpleasant neighbour. I leaned around the divider that separates our balconies, and called to her. No luck, she wasn't around.

That left calling to someone on the street.

When I'd been out on the balcony for a total of maybe half an hour, a postie passed. I found myself calling, "Hey, Postman!" and other intelligent things. He heard me, and came over. When I explained my situation, he laughed and left. No, I'm kidding. He went inside and contacted the building management.

Five minutes later the new building superintendant was in my apartment, and let me in.

I took the opportunity to introduce myself, and told her that I might have to move in a few weeks. "60 days notice!" she declared, and left.

At least the windows looked better.