That one time I almost won the Darwin Awards
…Like a fatter, clumsier Spiderman
*Click*
The sharp, metallic sound reverberated through every bone of my body.
I watched in horror, as the door jamb fell back into the locked position. Time seemed to stand still, as the most unlikely of unlucky events had just taken place.
Just that one single click. Then silence.
I was on the outside. A thick glass sliding door separated me from the warmth and comfort of my own home. How did this happen? What were the chances? What a cruel twist of fate… a seeming violation of the very law of physics. I had locked myself out.
…Actually, the door had locked me out on its own, I swear! Who started using these door-stopper bars in the first place? Why hasn’t science invented a lock that just does its job? Why are we still stick-based tools like a bunch of apes?
Whether not it was my fault (it wasn’t), I was the only conscious agent anywhere in sight. So, I guess it was on me. Nobody was coming to help me; nobody would even believe what I just witnessed. The thing just toppled over, taking a life of its own, as if pushed by a poltergeist. I was screwed.
I went through all the stages of grief. First up, denial.
I wrestled with all of my might, fighting like a madman against the unmoving handle of the door. Its unyielding stubbornness seemed to laugh in my face. Was I really just unlucky, or was I a fool? Am I so clumsy that I don’t even have to touch things for them to break? I’m like a real-life Mr. Bean. Hijinks ensue wherever I go, only there was no audience around to laugh at my misfortune.
I desperately groped around to find my pockets, to pull out that most trusted and intimate of companions that lives in my pants — my phone. Not a waking hour goes by without me pulling that infernal device out from my pocket, checking for some notification that does nothing but take me out of the present moment.
Usually it’s every few minutes, sometimes seconds. That phone never leaves me, it’s like an artificial limb. But in that moment, it was missing. Un. Fucking. Believable. That thing that I always hope will add value to my life, actually had its moment to shine, but was nowhere to be found.
I could cry out for help, but who would hear me?
My wife was upstairs, at the other end of the house, fast asleep. It would be hours before she awoke, and perhaps several more before she thought to look out back to find me stranded on the back deck. A deck that rises 15 feet above a steep, sloping ravine of a backyard… without a staircase or any other conveyance to bring a human safely back down to terra firma.
The front door was unlocked, I remembered that much, so knew what I had to do. I had to scale down from my second story deck, like a fatter, clumsier Spiderman, without falling to my doom.
My palms were slick and my stomach churned, as I prepared to face one of my greatest fears — the fear of heights, head on.
How many hours would it take until my wife or neighbor found me, a bloody mess, laid out on the ground?
…Bones broken, clinging to life, unable to draw even the final breaths to describe the ridiculous series of events that had led to my untimely demise? The “Darwin Awards” came to mind. Was I removing myself from the gene pool with my stupidity? Well, hopefully not. My wife was in her first trimester, fast asleep at 6:30 PM, unaware of my Bear Grylls-like survival scenario. Her pregnancy, partly the cause of my predicament, might hold the key to my continuing legacy.
The kid would hear the tales of their father’s heroic plunge. I tried to push the most horrific projections out of my head, but I couldn’t. Nevertheless, after weighing my options, it was ‘go time’.
It was just me versus gravity now.
I mustered what remained of my resolve, and began to pray to the very god or universe that I had cursed just a minute before. I grasped my two hands firmly onto the splintered, weathered railing, and before I knew it, threw one leg over the top and thought —
“This is what I get for stepping outside for some fresh air”.
