Sobbing and Lock Picking

     I was always afraid of asking for help while I was growing up. That's not to say I didn't, but it took a lot for me to get to that point. Maybe I was afraid of being mocked for not knowing how to solve the problem, or yelled at for not taking care of it myself. It was my problem, after all. So, when ten-year-old me saw a book in the locked family van that I wanted to read, the thought to go ask my dad to unlock the car, or at the least, lend me the key from the hook above the kitchen door to go unlock it myself, didn't even occur to me. However, what DID occur to me, was to pick the lock.

     The idea came from one of Sam's favorite video games, so obviously it's to blame. Basically, in all of the graphical glory that the year 2000 had to offer, he would take out a lock pick from his inventory, and after some awkward jabbing, the previously locked door would swing open, allowing for some otherwise illegal breaking and entering. It seemed... so simple...

     So I had my plan. I was going to easily pick the lock of the driver's door of a soccer mom van, therefore allowing me to get the book, get out, and nobody would even know what happened. Now. What to pick the lock with? Any minimally intelligent person would immediately start looking for a hair pin, because that's what everyone uses on television. And because I had two older sisters, one could argue that the pins actually multiplied on the floors of our house. However, apparently I did not reach the minimum standards of intelligence, and actually went the extra mile into complete idiocy, because a hair pin was not what I picked to do the job, nor was it a skinny metal object at all. No.

     I picked up a dried twig that was lying on the drive way to pick a lock.

     Looking at that sentence just makes me ashamed of myself, but yeah. I thought that the best option for lock picking was a flimsy pine stick. Then there was the picking in and of itself. I had no idea how to do this, and for those of you who are wondering, still don't know how to do this. But apparently I had high hopes because I didn't hesitate for a moment before trying. The way I was jimmying the lock, I was a professional in my eyes. After this, I would be able to open doors for people who locked themselves out of their house, or get into cars with the keys left in the ignition. I was going to use my lock picking skills for good! I'm going to be the- SNAP

     Wood wasn't a good choice. Twigs tend to break when they're put under, say, any type of pressure. It's a quality that we seem to share, because to this day, I have never felt fear like that again. That fear that makes it hard to breathe, and the tears just run down your face without you making a sound. At least... for the first couple of seconds. Then you get your breath back, and the deafening wails of terror and sorrow come from the depths of your lungs, and you don't even know what sort of pain awaits you when your father finds out. So, obviously, what I had to do was settle down, gather my thoughts, and tell my dad. Get it over with. Rip off the band-aid.

     Nope. I tried to get my sister, Rachel, to help me.

     “R-r-rachel?”

     “Yeah?”

     “C-c-could you help m-m-me with s-s-s-something?”

     “Uh... sure?”

     “Thank y-y-you.”

     Between gasps, I told her the situation. She knew my dad better than I did, and the fact that she didn't tell him either didn't exactly lighten my burden of fear for what's coming.

     “Okay, so there seems to be a bit of the twig stuck in the lock. Let me see if I can jimmy it out of there. I'll use a hairpin.” She was able to pick one up off the ground without even looking. They must go through these things like crazy.

     After about ten minutes of trying, she gave up. “Sorry, Josiah. I just cant get it out of there. But let's try to actually use the key. If the key still works, nobody will even know.”

     A glimmer of hope! Yes! Maybe I won't be killed today! Wait! No! The key doesn't work! I'm gonna die!

     “You're not going to die!” Rachel yelled at me, through my relentless sobbing. “Listen, you're going to have to tell Dad.”

     “WHAT?!? That's suicide!”

     “Well, he's going to find out eventually. It's better to tell him now, then to just wait until he finds out.”

     “That doesn't make sense at all!”

     “Yes it does. You know it does. Tell Dead. I mean, Dad.”

     “You did that on purpose!”

     “Maybe.”

     I've come to the conclusion that Dad was already pissed off before I even went to him. Because even breaking the family van's lock doesn't justify how livid my father was at me. Every fear I had of him while walking to tell him what I did didn't even begin to prepare me. So, I'm going to say he was pretty angry before I even entered the room.

     So angry, in fact, that he actually put me in the van by unlocking the passenger side, and then using the unlock mechanism on that door to unlock the rest of the doors (which became common practice for the next couple of years) and drove me to the bakery my mom worked at so that I could tell her what I did. Which is fifteen minutes away from the house. Fifteen minutes in a van with a very angry driver, made angrier by how hellish his son turned out to be, only to be yelled at some more by a very angry mother who was interrupted at work to be told that her van was vandalized by her before-stated hellish son.

      I just wanted to read a freaking book.

     So we got there, and my dad pulled my mom aside so that I could tell her the story. It took about five minutes to tell it through the sobs and gasps for air. But finally, I finished the story. I shut my eyes tight and awaited the oncoming storm of public humiliation and probably death.

     I had never heard my mom laugh like that. And only a few times after that did I hear it again. My dad started to protest her reaction but she quickly said “Timothy? Would you like me to remind you what you did when you were his age?”

     My father's silence was answer enough, and he just shook his head as my mom got up to get me an eclair.

     “Okay,” she said while putting it in front of me, “Tell it to me again. And don't cry as much.”