There I am, just getting home after a long day at the office. My husband Rob is out of town. I unlock our apartment’s front door, push, and nothing. The door doesn’t even move.  Despite the audible click of the lock, I feel the bolt holding back, denying my usual end-of-the-day flippant entrance, taking for granted the ease of unlocking and opening a familiar front door.

The crying mews of Hugo, our cat, begin to crescendo, beginning their overture from the moment I exit the elevator to my bewildered confusion at the unwelcoming front door, which refuses to open despite numerous attempts at the lock.  As Hugo’s caterwauling opera starts to grow more stressed with each unsuccessful click of the bolt, I can sense he is becoming increasingly concerned.  I am NOT magically appearing in front of him, and he is making it quite clear with the operatic development of his new work and increasing decibels that I must enter immediately OR perhaps I have abandoned him forever, my little san-san?  Who will tend to his evening dinner needs?  He will soon starve! (Translation of “crying mews” provided for those not familiar with a very vocal and opera-literate Bombay breed of feline).

I unlock and lock and unlock again. Still nothing. I do that quick New York check: am I at the right apartment? 6A, yup.

A flash of memory: that night long ago when I came home after a few too many drinks, went to the wrong floor, tried to open a door, and surprised a woman who looked at me in absolute terror as she peered through a slightly open door not sure if I needed help or was trying to enter her apartment. These are the stories that could only happen in a city where everyone lives stacked on top of each other.

But that’s not the case today.

I immediately Nancy Drew the situation and deduce that someone, perhaps from the building staff, gained entrance to our apartment and used the building keys without telling us, and flipped the top lock, the lock we never use, and a key I never carry with me. I’m furious as I settle into the newfound theory. I head downstairs to get the master set, which includes the abandoned key and MUST be the barrier holding me back. Back upstairs. Quick answer as the door remains unyielding: Nope, that’s not the problem either.

Back down. Up again. I’m yo-yoing like a madwoman, each trip amplifying Hugo’s caterwauling both in decibel level and desperation.

Fast-forward: three heroic building guys who accompanied me from the bowels of the building are now trying to open my door, all of them working the lock. The doormen continue to flip things; jimmy, click, pull, push, rattle….trying everything. While the lock continues to turn with an audible yet taunting cue proclaiming untruthfully, “(Click) I’m open”, the door remains impenetrable, holding firm.  I envision someone on the other side who must have fortified an iron barrier across the inside of the door, like the gates of a castle, barricaded to keep the evil enemies out.  But who did this and why?

Finally, the “aha” moment; the final surrender to the situation (noting the addition of nodding heads of the doormen and a tsk tsk of the tongue to prep the delivery of the next and inevitable chapter)

“You. Are. Going. To. Need. Joe!” (weighty silence noted between the words, AND at the end of the statement to commemorate the final exclamation point)

Who is Joe? And why the reverence and moment of awe as his name is uttered? 

Well, he is “THE Guy” (add Brooklyn accent and gesturing hands with pinky fingers outstretched). THE GUY who is the doorman of all doormen, The HEAD of this formidable group of warriors who run our midtown apartment high-rise 24/7. When your need escalates to Joe, you know it’s serious because these doormen have a formidable set of skills already, and if they can’t rectify the situation, this has now become a “Last Stand” with the heralding of Joe.  I’m happy to join in this seeming “surrender” and embrace whatever solutions may lie ahead, aside from the calling of a locksmith, a stranger to our midtown home, at this hour.

The official summoning begins as they grab their walkie-talkies and whisper hushed secret doorman language into their black boxes.  Eerie crackles reply, confirming that their important message has been delivered.  While I may not understand the code, I do sense that a huge billowing flag, like the one that starts off the Indy 500, has been waved to and fro with the message and that the summoning of “Joe” is now officially in place.

We wait.

A few minutes later, the elevator door pings, rousing Hugo’s fortissimo demands once again with the hopes of rescue; me too, to be honest.  Out of the elevator comes Joe, the lock whisperer himself, and I swear I think I hear a resplendent brass fanfare as he strides down the hallway towards our apartment door gathering. We part, allowing him clear access to the door.  Like a true leader with magic comfortable tucked into his tool belt, he beams a comforting smile and me and says, “No big deal”.  He jiggles a few things, clicks something, and sashays his hip against the door like Elvis, arms held over his head theatrically creating a new character in Hugo’s opera.  With a thud of his hip the door swings open welcoming Joe as if there never had been any other outcome then an door easily swinging open. The whole exchange took no more than 20 seconds.

A stunned Hugo is standing right at the entrance.  He stops mid trill just as he was to aim for a very vocal high-C, his eyes wide to see so many people gathered around the entrance.  This MUST be the posse to help provide his evening meal of cat food!

Fast forward to duct tape holding back the lower pesky lock that is broken and won’t behave (very New York problem-solving), a very happy cat exhausted from his unexpected and extensive performance this evening and ready for post-dinner Nap #23 of the day.  He “paperweights” my lap on the sofa not allowing me any option but to be his support human.  I’m just plain happy to be on the other side of the barricaded castle door with another incredible NYC story to add to the memory books.  Our upper lock will do in the meantime and my evening was able to progress as intended. As I replay the evening in my head, I ponder what universal truths might be hiding in this unusual event; hopefully, more than just a busted lock and certainly a lot of vivid imagination which delights me as I capture the words here to share with you.  

I must acknowledge that it’s this particular form of New York grace, the kindness of the people who keep the machinery of city life running, that makes all the difference. Tonight could have been an endless and frustrating story: Rob out of town, me locked out, Hugo trapped inside, emergency locksmith fees at midnight, maybe even a hotel room while we waited for morning.

But it wasn’t.

It was just another Tuesday night in NYC, saving not only Hugo and me but our evening too, with thanks to three guys who kept working the problem and one guy named Joe who showed up with quiet confidence and made everything right again. If I shared this writing piece with him he’d probably shrug and casually say about his heroism that night:  “Nooooo problem; it ain’t nothing”.  The people who show up when you need them. The ones who turn a potential moment of stress and challenge into just another story, a NYC story, full of life, connection, fun and humor.  That’s New York grace.