For those of you who know me outside of SOTS, the following story will come of no surprise to you…as you know, these types of things always manage to happen to me.
We enjoyed a glorious weekend in Georgetown celebrating local music with a few of our friends and favorite bands. If you were there yesterday, you know as well as I do the weather and the local line-up could have hardly been more perfect. Seventy degrees and sunny all day…as we gladly ran from stage to stage for eight hours straight, enjoying old favorites like Thee Emergency, The Lashes and The Hands; and discovering some new locals to love–The Lost Episode, Kaylee Cole, and The Lonely Forest.
During the only lull of yesterday’s afternoon and in search of some much needed sustenance, we moseyed down to Smarty Pants, one of my favorite spots in Georgetown. We grabbed a clutch seat on the patio, ordered a couple of Manny’s, ate a delicious sandwich (I had the Flipper, but next time I’ll have what Josh ordered–Miss Piggy: yes, no tv character is sacred) and enjoyed the company of a few of our favorites from Skeletons with Flesh on Them.
Deciding to use Smarty Pants’ non-Honey Bucket facilities before we returned to the Festival, I excused myself. After readying myself for an afternoon and evening packed full of my favorite bands, I attempted to exit the restroom. I reached down to unlock the bottom lock and nothing. Oh, the door knob moved and even the little lock latch moved, but the lock didn’t budge. So I yanked and pulled on it as hard as I could for a few minutes; I stopped and took a deep breath and tried to figure out just how the lock was outsmarting me–to no avail. …I was stuck. Luckily, I had my cell phone, so I texted my compatriots out in the Smarty Pants court-yard: “Halp! I am stuck in the bathroom.” Within in moments I hear Becca outside of the door in her soft southern drawl, “hunny are you in here?” “Yeah,” I whimpered defeated and slightly embarrassed…I just knew with one turn of her wrist Becca would open the door. But no such luck, I can hear and see Becca doing her damnedest to conquer the door. After a few futile minutes of trying and willing to suffer the embarrassment, I ask her if she can have someone with the key come and rescue me.
I sheepishly put the toilet lid down and take a seat. I can hear the conversation as the bartender fiddles with the key, Becca asks “Has this ever happened before?” and with bewilderment in her voice the key-wielder says ”No. In Five years, never.” The key has absolutely no effect on the lock or the stuckness of the door. Another waiter or two and a few patrons, by the sound of it, are taking their turn at the door. Nothing. There are lively discussions about my predicament happening just outside the door. “Is that your friend stuck in there? Poor Thing!” “Is someone stuck in there — oh god!” Someone passes a butter knife under the door to see if I can somehow jam it in between the lock and the door jam, again no such luck–in fact, the knife bends in half comically.
By now fifteen or twenty minutes have passed, the bathroom is getting hot, and I am trying not to give in to my claustrophobic tendencies. I am starting to think I may miss The Hands because I am stuck in a bar bathroom in Georgetown and I’m trying my damnedest to see the humor in that. By now, the big guns have been called in. I hear calls for screw drivers and hammers and all kinds of tools. Someone is beating the fuck out of the door knob with a hammer, but still nothings moving. And then it’s just silent. I call out “Hello?” Becca tells me the guy who is “going to get me out” had to go and get some more tools. In my mind, this next tool may be some sort of hatchet or chainsaw. “Don’t worry,” Becca coos, “you’ll be out soon.”
Soon enough, someone is at the door again and taking determined swings at the door knob. The acoustics of the bathroom make me feel like I am sitting inside a kick drum, but it appears to be working. I can see that the door knob is shaking and moving and with one final thwack and thud — there is outside light and air in the bathroom. I see an eyeball peek in and I wave sheepishly. A reassuring, booming male voice says, “don’t worry you’ll be out in just a few minutes.” A few maneuvers with pliers and a screw-driver and the lock has been popped out–the door is flung open and to the cheers of fellow patrons–I am free. A tall lanky man clad in his motor-cycle clubs’ leather vest welcomes me warmly and pats me on the back and people at the bar give me a thumbs up. I am bright red with embarrassment.
I thank my “rescuer,” a handsome bald man who was thankfully handy with tools. He tells me to wait around a while and I am hoping for a shot of whiskey. At this point, I need one–badly. Perhaps more badly than ever. I walk out to the patio–again to claps and laughter from my fellow Smarty Pants’ patrons. I hang my head and shrug my shoulders and finally just laugh and laugh with everyone else. If it had happened to anyone else, I would probably have been in stitches. Before we head out back to the festival–beers and meals were ordered and finished during my bathroom ordeal–my ”rescuer” brings me a generous gift certificate from Smarty Pants and apologizes. (see above cheesy photo)
And I will be back, I love Georgetown and Smarty Pants. I love that this happened in a place where some guy just had to go to his truck for his tools, and that everyone there shared the experience with me, in a kind rather than a pointing-and-laughing kind of way. (I believe this experience would have been soul-crushing and much longer in say, Belltown or Fremont). Oh, I will be back, but maybe next time–I’ll only use the top latch on that bathroom door.
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The Lost Episode ::: Photo by Abbey
