This story has nothing to do with the bar, but here’s what happens when I take a day off work…
I’m anal-retentive about my keys. I got house keys on my key chain, car keys and work keys. I keep em on a carabiner, on one of my front belt loops. They are always with me. At night, I either put em on a hook in the kitchen, or sometimes, I leave em on a shelf next to where I undress, or on the belt loop of the jeans I’m wearing that day. That’s three homes. If I don’t find em in one home, it’s easy, I look for em in the others.
Today, I wake up around 10am, my family’s going to Minneapolis for the weekend to see a Twins game. I do my ritual, breakfast, coffee, get dressed, pack the car, and get-out. The night before I packed my bag for the weekend. Some shorts, t-shirts, etcetera. I decided the night before that I would leave my keys at home, and use my wife’s set. But being the anal-retentive about my keys that I am, I check one more time that my keys are in the right place. The wife and kids are outside by the car, ready to get goin. We’re a little bit late, because I slept in, but no big deal. I look in the kitchen spot, where my keys should be, not there. Huh. Ok, must’ve left them downstairs in the laundry room, where I change clothes. I check there…no keys. Uh-oh. Panic begins. I say to my wife, have you seen my keys? They’re not in the right place. She says, no, haven’t seen em. Could we get goin? We’re late. No, I say, not until I find my keys. I go back into the house, and tear the place apart. I look four times each in the places I keep em. Nope, again, not there. I search the house. EVERYWHERE. Maybe the kids grabbed em, took off with em. I’m looking under the couch and the couch cushions, everywhere. I go back outside. My wife says, have you checked the bag you packed? I grab the bag from the trunk, throw it on the ground, open it, and pour all the contents on the leaf-strewn ground. I pick through it, methodically, checking every pocket. Nope, not there. There is NO WAY I’m leaving for Minneapolis without my keys. I’m going back inside. I spend the next ten minutes frantically looking from room to room. WHERE ARE MY KEYS. Nothing. Nowhere. I hear my wife call out to me, Clint! I run outside. She’s got the keys in her hand. Found em. Oh my God, hallelujah, MY KEYS. Where did you find em? She says, they were in your bag. Huh. That’s completely strange, but whatever, I’m just ecstatic that my keys have been found. We all jump in the car, I start breathing normally again, we start the car, and away we go.
We get to Minneapolis, check-in, go swimming, get dinner, game (Twins lose), back to the hotel, kids in bed by 10pm. My wife says to me, let’s hang out in the bathroom, talk, so we don’t wake up the kids. We’re talkin, my wife is sippin on some Pinot Grigio, our conversation travels to the beginning of the day. Oh my God, I say, isn’t it a miracle that I found my keys…YOU found my keys. Yeah, she says. But she turns away slightly when she says that. I think back to that moment, my wife finding my keys in my bag, and then I think, strange, I know I went through that bag with a fine-toothed comb. Did you really find my keys in my bag? She says, yeah, but then SHE SMILES. Ok, I say, what happened?!? Ok, she says, I found em on top of the car. You what? Yeah, I went to clean out the car, and I used your keys. I must’ve left em on the car. Oh my God, I say. You’re kidding me? Then it’s a miracle that I noticed that they were gone. We would’ve driven off with them on top of the car!!! Then she says, yeah, you think that’s a miracle? I had left the keys on top of the car at 8am, then drove to Bruegger’s Bagels across town, and back again.
From my heart to yours,
Clint Curtis. Bartender.