Two weekends ago, three friends and I ventured to Toronto to see a long-awaited Wilco concert. We explored the remarkably clean streets of the Canadian metropolis; we ate falafel and beef shawarma; we bought alcohol legally and our minds were blown by the show. Except for the fact that I clumsily spilled tzatziki sauce all over myself and the gas prices gave me a slight heart attack, the day was flawless.
We headed off to my car after the show and reveled in what we just saw while admiring the overpriced memorabilia we all gave in to buying: posters, Canadian flags, Nesquik cereal and other items that seemed sensible at the time. The car was on the second level of the Ryerson University parking garage and when we got there my friend Ben asked for the keys to open the trunk.
When Ben yelled to me that the trunk wouldn’t open and the lock was stuck, I became a little nervous.
I put the key back into the trunk lock, instinctively doubting Ben, and gave it my all. Indeed the lock was stuck. I turned it back and forth but it wouldn’t move. With one more push the key bent into an awkward Dr. Seuss-like shape.
A bent key? Nothing four college students couldn’t handle. For us, the solution was obvious – bend the key back into place.
We pushed, we shoved; at one point, my feet lifted off the ground as I pushed my upper body into the key. Suddenly the pathetic piece of bent metal couldn’t take it anymore –
it snapped in half. The two pieces fell sadly onto the trunk and I looked up to face my friends; their eyes met mine, filled with shock.
I had never faced a problem like this. Driver’s education never mentioned anything about broken keys and the 2003 Toyota Corolla owner’s manual through which we frantically flipped in search of a solution was useless. I should have had a spare somewhere, but it disappeared a long time ago and naturally I never replaced it. I didn’t think I would need it anytime soon. I chuckled nervously in an attempt to ease the tension and dread that arose.
After sharing my story on the phone with the Canadian Automobile Association, the woman came to the conclusion that my car would be towed and I would be staying in Toronto overnight.
I couldn’t help the tears from coming; I was in Toronto with a broken car key and three people for whom I felt responsible, my car was going to be towed and I had 40 American dollars in my pocket.
When the CAA man arrived, he looked at the key with a patronizing smile. He wasn’t impressed by the fact that we tried to put the two pieces back together with Scotch tape and he revealed his disdain by ripping the two pieces back apart. He sat himself in my front seat and lodged the end of the key into the ignition; he told me that I would be able to drive home by turning the key with its other half. We would not have to stay overnight.
After many “thanks” and sighs of relief we drove home in silence. We replayed the scene in our heads and eventually found ourselves laughing as we trekked back to Geneseo with two boxes of Nesquik cereal, a broken car key and a reassurance that everything was fine. I would worry about the broken car key in the morning.