Key Lessons to Consider When Locked Out

A phone was nearby; 911 could be dialed, pronto. And a small fire station was only two minutes away. She was not in imminent danger, but still I panicked.

My daughter Ariel was strapped down in a car seat. She smiled up at me, beloved Barney doll snug in her hands.

I was outside looking in--all four doors locked, every window rolled up tight. Save bashing a window, I wasn’t going to be holding my child any time soon.

A couple of weeks have now passed since our eventful night. My racked nerves have mended, and I have learned a few key lessons in the process.

I had arrived home from my job in Ventura and had decided to take a trip to the market about 9 p.m. to fetch the makings for a late-evening salad. Ariel was insistent on tagging along.

The marketing was a quick hit. Soon we were back in the crisp night air and I was struggling to coax a reluctant 2-year-old into a five-point-protection safety belt system. My autopilot mode malfunctioned: swing open front passenger door; toss down grocery bag, and, fatefully, car keys, too; open back door; secure daughter in a webbing of straps; and lock back door shut.

The slamming prompted instantaneous reflection: Oh no. Did I lock the front door, too?

The next sound I heard was my left palm slapped hard against my forehead. I tried to remain calm.

I flashed a feigned smile to Ariel inside and broke for the grocery store. I intercepted an employee and yelled for her to call 911--hail the Fire Department, sheriff, FBI and any available safecracker.

I was back at the car in a flash. Ariel’s contentment became my mission. I contorted my face and hopped. I fogged my breath on the window and spelled her name. Though now I realize she probably did not recognize L-E-I-R-A.

Lesson No. 1: When glass separates you from your child, remember to write backward.

The firefighters were quick to the scene--sans siren, driving one of those rectangular, massive red engines. My taxes, I resolved, were now justified.

*

A quartet of firefighters quickly assessed the situation. “We could pop the little side window,” one member suggested.

Right. Pop that sucker.

The senior firefighter answered: “The glass will shatter. We can’t take the chance of a piece getting in her eyes.”

Right. Bad idea.

Working in pairs, they decided to attack the front door locks with steel wires.

The thump-thump of my heart became more pronounced as more anxious minutes whizzed by. Ariel? So far so good.

Senior firefighter: “You got a spare key at home? Can somebody, your wife, bring it to you?”

Heck, no. Oh, my wife was home all right. But if I resorted to calling her, the only thing she was going to deliver was my death sentence. So I lied; I told the firefighter nobody was home. Surely this whole bumfuzzle would soon pass--without Ellen’s knowledge. And my standing as a good father would remain.

*

Ariel’s smile was replaced by an unsure gaze.

“Did you call triple-A?” another firefighter asked.

“No, they’ll take too long to get here,” I answered.

“Look,” he said, “then you better call a 24-hour locksmith.”

I was a bit miffed: Can’t you guys open this door? I remained silent and again left Ariel, whose bottom lip was now drooping.

I dialed the first 24-hour locksmith I came across in the Yellow Pages: “How soon can you be here?” I asked the dispatcher. I didn’t like his answer, and out the door I went. I returned to find Ariel in a crying fit, wriggling to free herself.

*

Firefighter: “Somebody coming?”

“No,” I said. “I mean, they said it would be an hour so I hung up.”

The firefighters traded glances, and I think it was then they concluded my ability to reason was in question.

Ariel was now beet red, frantic and pouring a river of tears. It was her “Out, daddy! Out, daddy!” that cut me most.

Rip open the trunk. Drill out the key hole. What about a glass cutter? I didn’t think my suggestions were rash, but the senior firefighter--warning of an expensive repair bill--tried to reassure me.

“Look, friend, she’s safe. If it was 102 degrees outside, trust me, the door would be open.”

A fleeting moment of relief was delivered in the small black bag that an approaching good Samaritan was toting.

“I have a pick-lock kit,” the slender man announced.

Whew.

He started to unfold an instruction sheet. “I’ve never used this before. It’s my friend’s.”

Darn.

*

He got busy reading. I reached for my wallet and AAA card, and even deeper for the will to phone my wife.

“Break out the jaws of life, boys,” I muttered on my return.

They all thought I was commanding them to tear open my car. “You’ll need it to pry my wife’s hands off my neck.”

In full rage, Ariel was trying to de-clothe. She managed only to remove two shoes and one sock. I pressed my head against the window. “Mommy will be here soon, honey.”

When Ellen did arrive, she was without a spare key.

Lesson No. 2: Make sure spare key is locatable.

Ellen was actually more collected than I could have ever wished. It was immediately apparent my wife was clueless that our toddler had been incarcerated for more than 30 minutes. Ellen thought I had phoned her immediately.

*

Lesson No. 3: There are times when a cowering husband can justify not divulging all facts to spouse.

The mood brightened considerably when a tow truck was spotted crossing the lot toward us. Its arrival had miraculously taken less than 10 minutes. Didn’t I feel foolish.

The driver’s Slim-Jim services, though, would not be needed. In fact, he never got out of his truck.

The senior firefighter had just then managed to trip the driver-side lock. I bolted to free Ariel.

Lesson No. 4: When entering car in a furor, provide forehead sufficient clearance.

Rodney Bosch is a Times staff writer.