Literally,  the keys were locked in the trunk. The car keys . . . in the car trunk. Yesterday my daughter-in-law asked me to drive her to Wal-Mart, and so I did. I dropped her off at the door and then parked way over on the east side that faces a rolling field, dotted with the remnants of hedgerows. Far enough away that you can’t make out details, stands – somewhat unsteadily – a barn.  It is peaceful. Well, it looks peaceful; for all I know, someone could be operating a meth lab in it.  Crushed that moment of bucolic bliss, didn’t I?  Sometimes I feel like a shark circling in the paragraphs I write.

The keys. Alison came out with her cart and I handed her the keys so she could put her stuff in the trunk; this car does not have a remote trunk opening device. In the rear view mirror, I saw her coming up the passenger side of the car . . . with nothing in her hands, just her purse over her wrist.

She got in and I, although I knew what her response would be, put out my hand for the keys. “I was looking right at them; I told myself not to forget the keys.” In her mind she heard a replay of the very definite closing of the trunk.

I tell her it’s all right, and, actually, I’m thinking that this is something in the bank for me: Perhaps I can get many withdrawals of favors from the “Locked the keys in the trunk” account. When I take out my phone to call Der Bingle, I was surprised and confused to see the speed dial list was different. Lon was there and I was there. Why would I be on my phone? Where was Cave Girl and Mother and Der Bingle himself? Slowly, bit by bit, neuron by neuron, it dawned on me. I had picked up Der Bingle’s phone. Same phone, same case – couldn’t see the wee bit of copper on the edge that distinguishes his from mine.

I call myself, but Der Bingle does not answer. He does not realize his phone is gone. Then I call the house, my son, Cave Girl and no call will go through. Again I have a stretched- out bit of understanding; he has a different area code. Finally, I get my son’s cell and say, “Walk the phone in your hand out to your dad and give it to him.” I was that specific; I had the idea this might be an episode out of “Anything Can Go Awry” – a yet to be conceived and produced BBC comedy.

So, Sydney and Der Bingle came to our rescue. I went up to the sitting room to clean up – read make a stab at – the piles of clothes and papers and found the shredder was clogged. So I spent two hours working on it, but it was a cheap one and I think the papers bent the little chewing up gears. It was somehow calming – I suppose like basket-weaving at the you know where place.