The Awkward Things That Have Happened

   I graduated in 2005 from a Midwestern college that considers itself very sophisticated. I hung around the town, drinking too much and occasionally smoking, for a year and a half. I worked a few weird jobs and lived in a small apartment in a pretty house with my boyfriend and my cat. Life was good, until it all just got so boring.

In 2006, my then-boyfriend (let’s call him Brad) and I (and our cat) decided it was time to move to the New York City area, which is where I am from. The problem was that we had no money. As a teenager (read: desperate person), I fantasized about living in this strange little town called Harrison, NJ. It’s affordable, because it’s mostly (illegal) immigrants. It’s also got its own PATH stop, which makes for an inexpensive and convenient way into the city.

In October, we moved into a very cheap (read: very sketchy) apartment in Harrison, NJ. The floor was all covered in these weird tiles, like the kind you’d see at in sleezy doctor’s office or warehouse. We had roaches—and not the good kind—and yes, there are a “good” kind, in comparison to the bad kind, which is what we had. The bad kind are little roaches. They live everywhere and they’re impossible to get rid of. We also had some interesting neighbors. One of them was a girl who we nicknamed “drunk girl.” She was often getting into loud domestic disputes out on the street below our window.

On one of the first nights we lived there, we had a lot of garbage to take out. We had been assembling furniture (read: Ikea) and moving in. All that activity had all produced more than a few bags that needed to go out. Our landlord, who we later learned was a bonafide Newark-based slumlord, was strangely invisible and the building’s super barely spoke English, so we were justifiably confused about where this trash was supposed to go. We took a reasonable guess and put it behind the building. I had done this once already, with success, so I decided to repeat it. Brad came down to help.

I opened the door that lead to the back area behind the building and we shuffled out. Once Brad was out, the door slammed shut.

“Uh oh,” said Brad, “are we going to be able to get back in?”

“Totally. My key worked before,” I said.

“Phew,” he said.

We dropped the garbage bag and I reached for my keys. I didn’t have them.

“Oh shit,” I said, “I don’t have my keys.”

“I have mine,” said Brad, handing them to me.

I tried the first key. No luck. The second. Nope. The third. Not that one either.

“Shit,” I said, “these are NOT working.”

“Let me try,” said Brad.

We took turns trying all the keys for a few minutes. It was obvious that I must have had a different key that let me in. We were stuck.

I looked around. The patio was sunk about two stories into the ground, surrounded on all sides by a high concrete wall. There was a metal stairwell that lead to essentially nowhere, a high fence with barbed wire. At the top of the stairwell, there was a gap between the fence and the top of one of the concrete walls. I thought about trying to jump it, but one bad step would land me face down in concrete and Brad talked me out of it.

“Well, damn,” I thought, “what do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” said Brad.

I remembered that the door to our apartment was unlocked and that our cat was in there. We hadn’t been there long, but we had been there long enough to realize that a. the building wasn’t filled with particularly savory characters and b. our cat could escape by nudging his nose on the door. It was stupid, but these thoughts were enough to trigger panic.

“Maybe we should call somebody,” I suggested.

“Who?” asked Brad.

It was a valid question. We didn’t really know anyone in the neighborhood.

“I don’t know. What do you do in these situations? Maybe we should call 9-1-1? Otherwise, we might be out here all night!” I replied.

“Oh, God, I guess so,” said Brad.

I didn’t have cell signal, but Brad did. He called 9-1-1 and I listened as he talked to the operator.

“Hi. My girlfriend and I…we’re…um…stuck? Oh…yeah…we’re trapped. Yeah, it’s 213 Harrison Ave. Yes, we’re behind the building. We can’t get back in.”

In seconds (the fire station, it turned out, was three blocks from our apartment), we heard sirens. Harrison is a very small town and it doesn’t have much crime. The police and fire department get really bored. This sounded like a big deal to them.

A few minutes later, roughly ten firemen ready for ACTION! busted through the door, hat’s on and walkies spewing weird codes for different kinds of potential disasters. I think they expected to have to break it down, so when they realized all they had to do was turn the handle, open the door and let us in, they were a little let down.

They asked for our names and our phone numbers and left in their giant, flashing truck, sad that nothing dramatic had happened. Just two stupid white kids getting themselves locked into a weird space behind their building. Just another stupid night in Harrison, NJ.

Our apartment was untouched. Our cat was asleep.