Expertise Keys Locks & Security

Okay, fine. Yeah, I’ll admit it. I recently experienced an unfortunate incident wherein I required the assistance of a locksmith.

Again.

Oh stop. Don’t mock. I had my keys. Both times. Okay?

So here’s what happened:

As we all know, I am in no way “hip and up-and-coming.” We’ve established this, am I wrong? Combine that with being exhausted from NaNoWriMo, December weather, and the fact that the beginning of the month has involved a lot of travel, and it makes no sense that I feel the need to go out on this Saturday night. In fact, I’ve planned to spend the day home, doing nothing except for breathe and maybe blink a few times. I’ve even skipped Shabbat services, or, as I confess to my mother later that day, I’ve “cut shul.”

Point is I’m tired (more than I usually am), and it’s cold.

But it’s also the second night of Hanukkah, and I’m in a mood (more than I usually am). One can’t live a life of work and sleep, right? And it’s the first night of the Sephardic Music Festival, and Galeet Dardashti is playing, and she has a new album coming out, and it just seems wrong for me to be home during such an event.

Besides, it’s only three subway stops away. No big deal, right?

Wrong.

Fast forward to later that evening, when I’m lost and freezing on a dark, disgusting, deserted block of Chinatown and unable to find a cab. Fast forward to me sitting on a tall chair at the 92nd Street Y in TriBeCa, sipping a coke, and, despite the effort I’ve made to doll myself up, realizing that one Saturday night out on the town does not a hip and up-and-coming person make. Fast forward to me leaving before the third act, seeing as I have Creature to get home to and a bed that’s feeling neglected, and then to me dealing with the Little Engine That Couldn’t (technically known as the Q). And finally, you get to me standing at the bottom of my stoop, feeling relieved to be home.

It’s midnight, the hour at which the non hip among us should vanish into thin air and/or turn into pumpkins. I get to the front door of my building, and put the key in the lock. I turn the doorknob.

Nothing happens.

I try again.

Now, we all know that I don’t have the best track record with keys and locks, and we know about “Classic Melissa Stories.” So, it’s only natural that I jump to the conclusion that I am a klutz. All the Brownstones around here look the same. It’s dark. Maybe I’m at the wrong house. I refuse to believe that I am experiencing deja vu.

We also know that when all else fails, I call my mother.

I’m still blaming myself, and feeling pathetic. My mother reminds me that this same lock was broken the week I moved in, and that it was fixed, but not replaced. She also tells me to go over to a family friend’s house and sleep on her couch. I refuse, and start a pointless monologue about not having any contact lens solution with me. Besides, Creature is alone.

I try the key again, not wanting to call my landlord who lives on the first floor of the Brownstone because it’s after midnight and I know she has H1N1. But there’s nothing else I can do, so I call. Her phone is off. I ring her bell. Her dogs bark, but she doesn’t answer. On top of everything else, I’m worried about her. I try buzzing a neighbor and prepare to apologize profusely, but the buzzer system doesn’t work. This is, after all, a New York City apartment building. Oh, and the light on the stoop isn’t working.

Next, I call my super. No dice.

The streets are almost deserted, except for a few dog-walkers who are looking at me like I’m a criminal, a psycho, a drunk or all of the above. I’m tempted to flag one down and ask them to try my key and prove that I’m an idiotic klutz. But now that it’s getting later, and colder, there’s nobody around.

And that’s when I snap out of my denial and realize what’s happening. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m completely alone on a December night in New York City. My dog is upstairs. I know he’s safe, but I don’t like this one bit.

I should call a locksmith, I think. But I’ve been there and done that. It’s expensive, and they’ll probably show up, open my door as if nothing were wrong, and charge me over a $100.

Then I have an idea. I live less than a block away from a fire station. It’s not just any fire station. It was one of the first to show up at the World Trade Center on September 11th. Knowing this, I feel horrible for even thinking that I could go bother them with something so minor. Instead, I walk around aimlessly looking for a restaurant or store that’s still open. But I find nothing.

I make a list of all the reasons it’s okay to bother the firefighters:

1. I’m a woman alone wandering aimlessly in the middle of the night with no place to go, in New York City.

2. I’m freezing.

3. If I had a cat, and said cat was stuck in a tree, aren’t these the people I’d call? (Are they? I don’t know.)

4. If I can’t get in because the lock is actually broken, the people inside may not be able to get out. I, unfortunately, know from being locked in. If there were a fire. . . I can’t bring myself to finish the thought.

It’s the fourth reason that seals the deal. I go to the fire station. It’s all closed up. I walk away, then walk back. I find a door, and a bell. I ring the bell. Nobody answers, I start running away in shame. Then somebody answers.

I go back. Two firefighters are standing in the doorway, in FDNY t-shirts and boxers. I feel like the protagonist in a Kristan Higgins novel. A million scenarios for my next novel spin around in my head.

I explain the problem, emphasizing the “my neighbors probably can’t get out.” They close the door, get dressed, and come meet me on the street. They follow me up the block, with axes over their shoulders. All my romance writer scenarios crash and burn as I realize the firemen are not happy about this midnight chore.

I give them my key, absolutely convinced that they’ll open the door on the first try, I’ll blush from embarrassment, and run upstairs to my dog. That’d be Classic Mel, right? Oh yeah, and I plan to leave them a bottle of wine the next day.

However.

The door still doesn’t open. They go to my landlord’s apartment and lean on the bell. Again, the dogs bark but we don’t hear anybody get up. They offer to break the door down with their axes, but make it clear that these Brownstone doors are historic and my landlord most likely wouldn’t appreciate it.

They also make a comment about the lack of light and the broken buzzer system.

“It’s your choice,” they say.

I can’t let them do it. They leave me standing on the stoop.

I know these are important, busy firemen with better things to do. And dissing the FDNY seems sacrilegious. But they just leave me there, freezing on my stoop. They don’t even offer to help me call a locksmith or a police officer. I decide they’re so not getting wine.

Then, like a mirage, I see some hip and up-and-coming girls enter the garden apartment. I haven’t met them, so they don’t recognize me. I explain the problem and they say they can’t help. I understand that they don’t want to let me use their entrance, but I mentally make a list of other ways they could’ve helped.

Left with no other choice, I open the Google app on my phone and look for a local locksmith. I’m good at this, you may remember. After a few tries to places that are closed, I reach some guy named Roger, who seems annoyed with me and wants to know who’s going to pay. He says he’ll send a guy out in half an hour and that I have to go to an ATM and get $160 in cash.

Which is what I do. The fact that I’m all alone in an ATM vestibule after 1 a.m. with a light shining on me so the whole world can see that I’m withdrawing money is not lost on me. I go back to my stoop with a wallet full of cash, and wait. At least I know I’m not imagining this. I try my landlord and super again just in case I can prevent the locksmith from having to ruin the lock. The super finally calls back, and gives his blessing for the lock destruction.

My phone rings again. It’s my new friend and savior Roger. He informs me that Noah is on his way.

Noah? Huh. Possible “Nice Jewish Guy?” I wonder. You never know. I wait for Noah, plotting another novel wherein the hero is a locksmith and the heroine is. . . I don’t know. Freezing? Tired? Edgy?

Noah finally arrives. He’s a sweetheart with the sexiest Brooklyn accent ever, and my age, but unfortunately not my type. Although I do realize that with my luck, marrying a locksmith might not be such a bad idea. Apparently, he was sitting in front of the T.V. with a beer and about to go to bed when Roger informed him that there was a girl stranded on her stoop and he was afraid I’d freeze.

G-d bless Roger. And G-d bless Noah for not getting a D.U.I.

There’s no light, but he has a flashlight he can attach to his head. He tries to pick the lock, and he explains that this happens all the time. That doesn’t make me feel any better. Neither does his comment that this is the worst he’s seen, or his confirmation that the door can’t open from the other side. Then he needs to break out the drill.

Sorry neighbors, I think. Creature’s about to howl his brains out.

Then the door opens. Noah lets me through so I can run up the stairs and get the dog. I open the door to my apartment, thrilled and a bit surprised that it opens without incident, and get Creature.

Noah takes one look at the cocker spaniel in front of him and is clearly shocked that such a small, adorable thing could make such a racket. But the two men hit it off so well I’m tempted to send Creature home with him.

A few minutes after that, I climb into bed. Not that I could fall asleep, but at least I’m warm.

The lessons from all this?

When in doubt, just call the locksmith. If they destroy the lock, who cares. If you’re living in an old New York building, the lock is probably a hundred years past its prime. Time to let it go.

More importantly — there’s something to be said for staying home. I still love Galeet Dardashti, but I love her most when I’m watching her on YouTube (thank you http://shemspeed.com), from the comfort of my bedroom.

Note:

My first locksmith story was so much fun to write. It’s my favorite post to date. Even though I was trapped inside, it didn’t feel quite as dangerous. It was funny. I hope to tell the story at a Moth story slam someday. Based on that, I was looking forward to writing the sequel. The thing is, I’m having trouble finding the humor in this story. My mother was upset for days. She wants me to own a place so I can have control over things like locks and lights. When I told this story to another teacher at work who has a daughter my age, she said that if it had been her daughter, she would have been beside herself.

There’s a new lock on the front door now, and the landlord has paid me back for the locksmith and promised to get an electrician to fix the lights. I’m grateful that I’m fine, and my neighbors are fine, and that it wasn’t snowing or even colder than it was.

Meanwhile, I’m off to JDate. It’s enough already. It’s time to start looking for an eligible Jewish locksmith.

Expertise Keys Locks & Security NYC
2103 Frederick Douglass Blvd, Suite 1RW

New York, New York 10026

(347) 226-5931

Locksmiths get people in when they are locked out. Hopefully the person hiring the locksmith belongs in the place they hired the locksmith to break into, but it is not always the case. My first choice was to see a picture ID identifying the person and matching the address of the property. However, for many legitimate reasons ID may not be available. For example, it may be locked inside the place. Or, they might have just moved to that location and not had their ID changed yet to match their address. In this case I would use their ID to verify their name, and then tell the person that once I had gotten them in they would produce a piece of mail, preferably a utility bill addressed to them at the address in question, or perhaps a lease. I let them know in advance that if they couled not produce evidence that they belonged in the place I would call the police.

Even that didn’t work every time. I picked a lock for one young man who promptly produced mail with his name on it corroborated by his identification once inside. Then his girlfriend showed up and was angry because she had kicked him out the week before. She threatened to call the police and implied that I was to blame, too.

“I think you should call the police,” I said. “But as far as I’m concerned, you might as well arrest one of my screwdrivers.”

When she asked me what I meant, I said, “I’m just your boyfriend’s tool, here. He produced satisfactory identification and I let him in. If he does not belong here you should call the police. I will be happy to wait here for them to come.”

She said that that would not be necessary. I gave her a business card, the boyfriend paid me and I left. In a few days she called me back and had me change her locks.

Lockouts are not a very good business. They are not conveniently scheduled, but happen at completely random times. The person who is locked out will sometimes call several locksmiths and hire the first one who shows up, leaving the others to waste their time. Locksmiths do not like this. More than once I arrived at a lockout to find two different competitors’ trucks already there, and we agreed that we would all leave and leave the inconsiderate lockout victim stranded. While we were wasting our time on behalf of this lockout, we could have been doing our scheduled work instead and making real money.

There are a few disreputable locksmiths who specialize in lockouts. A person who is locked out after hours can expect to pay one of these sharks several hundred dollars to get them back in, and may end up with ruined hardware and a damaged door besides. Consumers need to be careful whom they hire. The police may have someone to recommend. Otherwise a neighborhood locksmith from a good neighborhood might be a wise choice. Unfortunately when you are locked out you are in many ways at the mercy of fate and the locksmith.

A locksmith might be disreputable if:

* Their company vehicle is a pink Cadillac
* They arrive dressed in formal attire
* Their primary tool for gaining entry is a large pair of pliers

So have a good look at the company truck, the locksmith, and the locksmith’s tools.

Perhaps you can go to a friend’s house and see if there are any locksmith reviews online for your town, or ask your landlord, your neighbors or your friends to see if they can recommend a reputable locksmith.

Expertise Keys Locks & Security NYC
2103 Frederick Douglass Blvd, Suite 1RW

New York, New York 10026

(347) 226-5931

Pick up any newspaper with an article about public concerns and the subject of crime usually tops the list. It’s therefore surprising that homeowners and building contractors often don’t use the services of a professional locksmith to analyze security needs for their properties. For example, the most common practice in new home construction is to piecemeal the security precautions-using one company to set up an alarm system, an electrician to hook up outdoor lighting for crime prevention, and carpenters perhaps to install low–grade locks and door hardware almost as an afterthought. Often critical options such as door frame structure, door reinforcement or floor safes aren’t even thought of in time to incorporate those into the original building process.

“There are almost 10,000 members of the Associated Locksmiths of America-a number of which are certified locksmiths-available to builders, business owners and homeowners to ensure the physical safety of their property and, most important, their employees and families,” says Robert E. Mock, ALOA’s president. “It’s puzzling that owners make such substantial investments in their homes and businesses without taking care to secure them intelligently.” The issue is more significant than just correct installation techniques. A qualified locksmith can make recommendations on what physical and electronic systems need to be chosen in the first place.

Today, the security marketplace is flooded with options often unknown to those in fields outside locksmithing. Even a vendor in a related industry who is aware of a new security product is unlikely to have the judgment or qualifications of a highly trained and experienced locksmith. Mock also cites concern about the growing number of companies that are only aware of, and trained in, a narrow portion of security service. “More and more, we are seeing companies marketing themselves as security providers who have minimal exposure to the security industry as a whole. Especially with the rapid onset of electronic security in common applications, we are running into more individuals who have negligible training in physical security–they have learned overnight to install something that they do not really understand, and they have little or no background in deciding whether the product choice is appropriate for a particular application. Often they are employed by companies that only make or produce one product; therefore it is unlikely that a comprehensive security analysis is going to take place for the customer.

Companies and individuals interested in learning more about locksmiths and the higher levels of security training available can contact:

Expertise Keys Locks & Security NYC
2103 Frederick Douglass Blvd, Suite 1RW

New York, New York 10026

(347) 226-5931

This really wasn’t something I was expecting to tweet on the last day of school (or ever):

“Having an unfortunate incident wherein I can’t open my front door. Locksmith on the way. Pizza guy for whom I couldn’t open door is pissed.”

Let’s rewind a bit, shall we?

It’s the last day of school. I’m on three hours of sleep, thanks to the eighth grade graduation and a messed up train schedule. I’ve had more work than I can handle. I haven’t been feeling well and have barely eaten in two days. The end of the year is emotional.

Blah, blah, blah.

This usually nice, Jewish girl is such a wreck she’s ready to start calling on Greek Orthodox saints and kissing icons. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just not something that I, being a Nice Jewish Girl and all, personally do.

(Although my friend Diane says that if I ever want to convert, she’ll provide the kiddie pool for my baptism and make a video of the ceremony. Now that’s a friend.)

Well, I confess that the words “Ag, Panagia Mou” have escaped my lips more than a few times and I am thisclose to crossing myself frantically and perhaps lighting a candle or two.

Again, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I digress. Just trying to set the scene.

So I leave school, all teary and emotional, and get on the Subway. I make a plan. Pizza and a Buffy marathon.

Yes, as we know, Chez Mel is party central.

Party plans are looking good. Favorite pajama bottoms and Yankees t-shirt? Check. Glasses instead of contacts? Check. Pizza? On its way. I fire up Hulu, and wait.

Pizza Guy finally arrives.

And that’s when the afore mentioned “unfortunate incident” begins.

You see, New York apartments, it’s been said, are basically columns of dust held up by 125 years worth of paint. And my apartment, well. . . in spite of the nice neighborhood, leaves a lot to be desired.

My front door won’t open. At all.

Now, I’d like to believe that Pizza Guy wants to be helpful. I really do. Except for his English? Not so hot. . .

He pulls. I pull. He pushes. I push.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I even take a screwdriver and take the doorknob off. (And feel quite handy, if you don’t mind me saying so.)

He asks for my keys. I pass them under the door. (Don’t yell at me. I know that’s unsafe, but I know this guy. I order from this place all the time. And let’s face it. It wasn’t like I believed the door was actually going to open.)

I end up paying him under the door, which is actually a lot less illegal than it sounds. He takes the money. Unfortunately, he also takes my pizza. And my change. At least he returns my keys.

I call my landlord. Press “2″ for emergency. I get a recording telling me to call the emergency number in the lobby.

And therein, we find our problem, as the lobby, as you can imagine, is on the other side of my front door. Luckily, the super’s number is in my phone.

Or not.

Somehow, in the whole syncing process that I have yet to understand, my iPhone has deleted a bunch of contacts.

At this point, I’m thinking of forgoing the Greek Orthodoxy dream and becoming Amish, as they don’t have iPhones. At least as far as I know.

I’m proud to say that I then proceed to do what any mature thirty-one year old would do. I call my mother at work. Do I care that she lives 3,000 miles away? Not so much.

And then I get onto Twitter. Hey, can you blame me for for wanting company? (Hi Tweeps!) I get the sympathy I need. Or rather, people laughing at my plight, which is the next best thing. And hey, I even have the fabulous Tori Carrington, creator of all things Sofie, cheering me on. How cool is that?

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I’m still locked in. Mom and Tweeps, supportive as they’ve been, have yet to rescue me. So, I turn to Google. I enter “locksmith” and my zip code.

I dial the first number that comes up. Locksmith gets all worked up. “You can’t get out?” he askes. I realize he’s more upset than I am. I also realize he’s Isareli.

He’s just gotten home, but turns out “home” is just a few blocks away from me.

A few minutes later, I hear my name being shouted through my front door. I realize then that some total stranger, presumably with experience in the Isareli army, is picking my lock. I can’t even see him.

But at least I know that if he murders me, my tweets and my in Internet history will lead the cops right to him.

A few minutes after that, he shouts my name again. “Melissa!” He then says, “This lock is broken.” (I’d let you know how I wanted to reply to that, but I prefer to keep this blog G rated. You never know.)

“I know,” I tell him.

“I’m going to have to saw it.”

Lovely.

This brings us to my next two tweets:

“Did you know that some dogs don’t care for locksmiths who saw off doorknobs? Just saying…”

“And y’all know how flipping LOUD some dogs are…..”

The sawing is successful, and the door opens. Locksmith barges in and finds me, in my afore mentioned Buffy watching, pizza eating attire, holding a convulsing tricolor cocker spaniel who’s trying, but failing, to show his teeth. He checks out my obnoxious purple fingernails (hey, it was a graduation gift to my 8th graders, long story).

Poor Locksmith, a sweet guy in his 60’s, is drenched in sweat and manages to look more war torn than I do. There are doorknob guts and tools all over my doormat,

Pizza Guy chooses this very moment to come back with the pizza. But not my change.

I feel like I’m staring in a pilot for some cheesy new sitcom.

Anyway, while Locksmith finishes up whatever it is he has to do, he tells me about how he used to live above my laundromat, before it was a laundromat.

Then he tells me about the two dead bodies he once found in front of the restaurant on my corner. “The neighborhood is much better now,” he assures me, before explaining how proud he was to be the one who called the police.

He also tells me about the tricolor cocker spaniel he once bought at Macy’s. Somehow, I like this story better, especially since he gives me tips about cleaning the fur on cocker spaniel ears with a mixture of vinegar and water.

Imagine the amusement of Israeli Locksmith when he finds out that my tricolor cocker spaniel’s name is Hamudi (cutie, in Hebrew). He gives Hamudi several commands in Hebrew, which Hamudi follows beautifully, thus giving his mother nachas and many opportunities to kvell.

Locksmith announces that he’s not even going to check my ID because he believes the apartment is mine (as if I’d break into an apartment, put on pajamas, lock myself in – and then order pizza). Eventually, he leaves. “Lehitraot!” I call after him. He compliments my Hebrew pronunciation.

I’m left with a hole in my front door. But I repair it like the capable, single woman I am. I even think my handiwork is prettier than the original dead as a doornail doorknob. It’s kind of like the way I once fixed a broken USB cable with a hammer and a bunch of girlie stuff.

I’m happy to report that I now have a shiny, new doorknob. It rocks. Too bad I’m moving in two weeks and won’t be able to enjoy it for years to come.

How sad is it that more than one person has commented that this is “such a Melissa story?” Do I even want to know what a “Melissa story” is? I think not.

By the way, Locksmith was disgusted at the poor quality of the lock AND how poorly it was installed. Which brings us back to the subject of New York apartments and landlords.
By NYC Resident Melissa Kantor

Expertise Keys Locks & Security NYC
2103 Frederick Douglass Blvd, Suite 1RW

New York, New York 10026

(347) 226-5931