House-Shaped Lockbox
Soma

About a year ago my stepdad decided to install operable-from-inside-only deadbolts on the doors of our house.

''We'll be as protected as Fort Knox!'' he touted, not-quite-purposely giving the comical appearance of a 4 AM infomercial. ''This lock is totally unpickable, so we're totally safe!''

These deadbolts were a sure defeat to any catburglar that happened upon our humble and peaceful suburban home. Regular burglars, too. Maybe even Hamburglars, but don't quote me on that.

You could've really used a pair of these. They were supposedly impenetrable. So very impressive. These bolts were the best thing since sliced bread to keep anyone and everyone out of your cozy little hearth.

Especially yourselves.

You see, my family is not the most well organized family in the world. We seriously must rank within the bottom 3%, and that's being a tad bit generous. The problem in this situation is mainly garage door openers. To put it plainly, we broke them. Broke broke broke them.

Not myself, personally. I'm not privileged enough to hold one of the magical buttons ? I'm resigned to the role of an overgrown latchkey child. My parents had been fooling with the ultra-secret code on the garage door opening unit, with its 20 or so DIP switches, and miraculously broke it. Don't ask me how you destroy a tough mechanical system by flipping a .1'' lever or two, but my parents are apparently skilled enough to accomplish the feat. At that moment my house was doomed to be a bastion of lock-and-key. An impenetrable one!

*cue music*

So on this fine Monday morning I hack and slash my way through pre-rush hour traffic from Falls Church, coming home after an unforgiving day drowning in VRML and middle school kids and playing pool with Sasha. I make sure to stop by the bank on my way home so as not to get charged a ridiculous $30 fee for overdrawing my checking account again. And then I went home. Sweet, blissful home. Like a country mother, always beckoning with open arms, ready to let anyone in need into them. I parked at the foot of her amicable driveway, walked up the intimate porch steps, and unlocked the ever-friendly door, gently turning its cordial knob to ease myself inside.

Well, y'know, except not.

I pushed on the door. It did not budge. I pushed again. It did not budge again. A vision of a slow death on the splintered grayed porch shook me. I pushed again.

Being quick enough to realize my house has other doors and windows, I scoured the outside of the house like a world-encompassing octopus looking for a way in. Soon enough I had come to the conclusion that each and every window was singularly locked, preventing a Lifetime-Originals-burglars style entry, while the back door was also deadbolted, preventing the other brand of Lifetime Originals-drunken-husbands style entry. I was pretty screwed. Although prowling around the house did leave me with the wonderful feeling of being a high-class art thief, suburbia out of mind.

Following a not-light-on-the-sardony phone call to my stepdad, I had learned a) no one had a working garage door opener, b) i was screwed, and c) no one would be getting home for a while. The last one made me revisit the death-on-the-porch scenario. I was shaken again. The second I had already figured. The first one made me chuckle at my family. Those fools. Those FOOLS! [Note: a + c made the likelihood of death much higher. I was quick enough to realize this.]

My only route to continued existence, then, lie in my exquisitely-patterned biceps. And triceps. And the other giant muscles on my body.

Because that is the only kind of muscle I have. The giant kind. The really giant kind.

My first break-in attempt is to smash in the back door. I kick it a few times before I realize that the rattling I hear is the oh-so-fragile glass that makes up about 70% of it. I decided my parents wouldn't quite agree that it was their fault I had to smash in their glassy door like the badass that I am, and I'd probably end up cutting myself into a thousand or two bleedy Soma pieces in the process, neither of which seem like attractive ends to the means. That meant I had to go back to the front door.

Now, don't get me wrong, I have lived in the house for quite awhile. I do know some of the neighbors. Some of them might've even seen me. But there's always a stigma against standing in broad daylight and smashing repeatedly into a door while everyone in the tri-county area can watch you. It's kinda uncouth, if you know what I mean.

So there I was. And there was the deadbolt. Mano e mano. Brawn against... metal. My supposedly-unbreakable enemy taunted me from the other side of the door.

''Heyyyyy, Soma! Soma, Soma, Sooomaaa! Heeeey, Soma!''

I was pissed. And hot. And probably even on the brink of death. But especially pissed. I grasped the doorhandle in one hand and my iron will in the other. I pounded into the door.

WHAM!

I relaxed. A bead of sweat ran down my face. This would probably take awhile. Too bad I didn't know how much time I had left. Deadbolts aren't really the kind of things they put on doors to be broken. Those're called wreaths.

WHAM!

I pounded it again. Struggled to take a breath. Visions of lakes and rainfall skirted my vision, the heat pounding again and again and again its message of imminent destruction into my poor fallow skull. I truged onward.

WHAM!

And then it was over. The undoable had been done. The impenetrable had been penetrated. The unattainable had been attained. I was inside.

My poor opponent lay on the ground, his dual set of 1/8'' screws sitting pithily by his side. He was not a worthy opponent, I ascertained. I was much too powerful. Or he was simply much too weak. I then sauntered over to the phone and re-phoned by stepdad, giving him a step-by-step detailing of how easily his fortress had fallen to the might of my shoulder. Making sure he was aware that his defensive tactics were nothing more than a paper chicken, I hung up the phone. I was the victor ? through a grueling car ride, intense heat, and cheap anti-burglary devices, I had risen to the top, into an arena filled with murderers and thieves and other skilled folk of the underground. I smiled. I was proud.

In your face, deadbolts. Let this be a warning to you all.