Locked In A Lincoln

Someone once told me that the difference between comedy and tragedy is that everyone ends up either married or dead.  Since Espen is not yet old enough for nuptials, neither is he dead, this story lies somewhere betwix the two poles. I leave it to you, the jury of one and all, to decide whether to laugh, gasp, or cry.

You may chuckle when you mention that friend of yours who still lives with his mother at the age of 35, and I would join you...except that I am 35 and my husband, son, and I all technically live with my mother.  I am proud of this because are part of a real community of mom, dad, aunt, aunt's dog, and the three of us.  Out here in the country we help each other out.  We work together on the garden, we share eggs, we pick up each other's mail and we transport each other to and from the airport.

That said, my parents, grandmother and great aunt were returning from New Mexico Friday last, and it was up to Espen and I to fetch them at 2.50pm from the Southwest departure area.  A simple enough task, but one that could only be completed in the Montero due to its two jump seats in the back.  With five adults and a car seat, none of the other vehicles could accommodate.

The Montero has been a faithful workhorse for my mother over the last decade, squiring her around in an elevated and four wheel drive cocoon that has kept her above and out of harm's way.  Since she and dad retired this year however, a little style has been allowed to trump functionality.

Enter the Lincoln.

The Lincoln is a sacred family relic kept in mint condition since 1997 or thereabouts.  It had been sitting in state, kept away from dust, rust and an early demise, in MY grandmother's garage with 20,000 miles on it and regular outings once a month to keep it in tip-top shape. Since she is now well into her 87th year, grandma decided it was acceptable to pass it on to my parents to enjoy in all its grey leathered, crimson exteriored glory. It now sits in the double garage bay while the Montero is crammed next to it  in the single garage, largely ignored, and grateful to be out of the elements.

Espen and I made our way to collect the Montero on the day of aforementioned airport pick-up. I pushed the garage door opener.  Nothing happened.  Not even a noise.  Not deterred in the slightest, I placed Espen in the driver's seat and shut the door so I could manually release the door and free the car.  Due to some technical malfunctions I still do not understand, it took me at least 7 minutes to pry the door open while Espen merrily pretended to drive the SUV, cackling with pleasure.

That done, I returned to the driver's seat, placed the babe on my lap and turned the ignition. The theme of nothingness continued.  Oh, the lights flashed blearily and the wiper blades limped from side to side, but there was no sign of further life.

My best guess was a dead battery but in the heat of racing against the clock, I couldn't be certain. Still, there were jumper cables in the back and I had  no other ideas so what the hey.  I grabbed the cables, Espen and headed to the Lincoln.  Espen went in the driver's seat,  I flipped the hood release and went to the front of the car to spring the latch and open the hood...except it wasn't there.  I ran my hand under the entire lip of the hood. Nothing. Time was not standing still.  Espen waved at me. I re-released the hood and tried again. Nope. I crouched down and peered under the hood as I pried it up with my fingers.  It giggled at me and then I saw it. A tiny, yellow lever almost flush with the bottom of the hood. Jerk Lincoln designers.

That done, I managed to get the jumper cables hooked up to both cars without using myself as the ground.  Pleased, I returned to the Lincoln and lifted the driver's side door handle so I could start the car.  Espen smiles at me.  From the other side of the window.

I slowly try the handle again, a creeping realization making its way through my brain.
My.
11 month old.
Is locked.
In THE LINCOLN.
with the keys.

Now some parents might have panicked, or experienced profound guilt and shame wash over them at this moment. Maybe it was my lifeguard training kicking it.  Perhaps a morbid sense of humor.

For a second, I imagined Espen's face looking like this, but what I really saw is displayed below. He was having a blast.  Part of me that still remains a child whispered that if I just jumped the Montero and prepared to leave, the Lincoln would magically unlock itself by the time I tried the door handle again.  The other parts of my brain were saying:
1. Get the baby to unlock the door.
2. Find something to break the window.
3. Guess the key code for the door number pad.
4. Take a photo.
5. Write this story down.


Espen DID try to mimic my ambiguous hand movements, but to no avail.  Bored with trying to interpret my intentions, he returned to throwing the turn signals on and off and bouncing on the leather seat.

Since my parents were flashing through the air in a plane at that moment and Tobias had taken my phone with him to work, I thought I'd better buy myself some time to come up with a suitable plan. I returned to the Montero and climbed in the front seat.

There we sat, mother and child, side by side in our respective vehicles, both in the driver's seat where we like to be.  It was like that internet meme of the dad who photo-shops his baby doing all sorts of dangerous looking things like, handling cleavers and blowtorches. Sans photo shop.

I am glad to say that the irony was not lost on me in the moment, surreal though it may have been.

Is it safe to jump a car when the donor car isn't running? Who knew.  I figured I might as well try since there was no way to either roll the Montero OUT of the garage nor to get another vehicle close enough to jump it. I turned the key and waved to Wesp. He jumped up and down, a muffled squeal emanating from the Lincoln.

Presto. The first thing that worked.  Great. I unhooked the cables, backed the Montero OUT so as not to carbon monoxide the baby and visited him at the driver's window again. By this point, he'd begun to wear out the toggling options and held out his hand for me to get him.  Oh dear.

I had no idea if or where the spare key could possibly be due to a recent total house purge by mom and dad, so I ran to the phone booth to try and find my grandmother's phone number. Not there. Called Tobias.  I believe the words that came out were in this order.

"Hello. I do not need your judgement right now, I need your help."

I then asked him to call Aunt Rebecca and get grandma's number and then call her to get the key code and then call me back. If I didn't answer, it was because I was breaking the baby out of the car, so just leave a message.

And then I became a human pinball between the garage and the phone, ricocheting crazily back and forth trying to keep the baby in good humor and not miss vital information.  Five minutes became an eternity. On the third pass to the phone I detoured to the junk door, JUST IN CASE.

This junk drawer has been known to swallow entire solar systems without blinking.  If something goes in, it does not come out and I was reticent to even slightly buoy my flagging hope for a simple solution.  Still, desperate  times call for desperate measures. I opened the drawer.

The Great Purge had found its way to the Junk Drawer as well.  I saw a single key and grabbed it.

By this point, Espen had been in the Lincoln for at least fifteen minutes and was ready to be done with the Giant Crimson Steed.

For a moment, I stood at the front of the car looking at him, the key and the Lincoln.  There were two upright rectangles staring back at me from the key and grill.  This was the moment everything boiled down to.

I inserted the key and turned.  Nothing.

I took a deep breath, summoning all the magical thinking in the universe and slowly turned the key backwards.

Click.

Espen smiled with delight as I unlatched the door, scooped him up and ran back into the house to call Tobias off the chase.  Then it was off to the airport and business as usual.


The Lincoln sat serenely in the garage as we bounded down the road towards the airport as though carnapping infants was a favorite past-time.