Batteries Not Included

A typical day for me involves a certain minimum number of false starts when attempting to leave my house. I am what one would refer to as ‘scatterbrained’, ‘addled’ or ‘geriatric’ when it comes to knowing where my personal affects are. Things like my keys, my wallet, my sunglasses, my shoes, my cell phone, my bag, all seem to go missing right when I am five minutes late. I have been known to run around my house in one shoe, searching for my wallet which is, of course, in my other pants pocket, while brushing my teeth and attempting to make a phone call to say that I am running late. It seems my brain can make a list of all the things I need to do in order to get ready, but can’t actually get any of them done. I end up short circuiting, trying to do three things involving my mouth all at the same time. I will frequently find one article, say my cell phone, at the expense of another, say my sunglasses, which I previously had and then set down in the exact place I found my cell phone. It is not uncommon for all the things that need to go in my pockets to be found in the furthest corners of my apartment, as though they were sci-fi pieces to some secret weapon the forces of good never want reassembled.

Once I have gathered them all – usually in a pile on the kitchen table; it helps me to see them all in the same place at the same time – I am able to put them into my pockets and make my first attempt at leaving. Invariably, I will be in the elevator going down from my third floor apartment to the parking garage when I realize that the secret item on today’s list of ‘Things I Will Need Out There’ is not with me. This time it is my Capezio dance bag which holds an assortment of books, scripts, Advil, glasses cases, pens and the portable CD player for my car. As soon as the doors open at the garage level, I am joined by my neighbor, a heavy set man, and his dog. I do not get out but instead ride all the way back up with him. “Forget something?’ he wonders aloud. “Yeah,” I say and shake my head as if I can’t believe I could be so forgetful. In truth, this is only the first of what will probably be three tries at getting out of the house.

I exit the elevator, trudge down the hall and enter the apartment in search of my Capezio bag, which I know is sitting on the floor in my bedroom. As I walk into my room, I trip on a considerable pile of laundry and angrily rip my sunglasses off of my face and fling them onto the bed. Now that my eyes can see better, I grab my bag, triumphant, spin on my heels and march right back out the door, down the hall and press the elevator button. As I hear the elevator whirring and climbing, I realize that I have forgotten my sunglasses in my room. The elevator is on its way but I can’t go out without my sunglasses. I race down the hall, fumble for my keys, unlock the door, run into the bedroom, miss the pile of laundry, grab my sunglasses and make for the front door. Just as I am locking up my apartment I hear the elevator doors open. I turn and run, but time is against me. Another neighbor has taken advantage of the elevator; I am just in time to see her through the quickly closing doors. Impatient, I decide that rather than wait for the elevator again, I will take the stairs. I cross back down the hall, past my apartment door to the other side where the fire exit is. Down two flights of stairs, out one door, across one hall, down another flight of stairs, through another door and I am back in the parking garage. Feeling relatively certain that this time will be the one, I make it all the way to my car, which is parked in the tandem space that I share with my roommate, who is not home. I get in, sit down, fuss in my bag for my portable CD player and plug it in. I turn the car on and zip out of my parking space.

It is at this moment that I realize that my CD is not playing.

And then it is at the exact next moment that I know why: I robbed the CD player of its batteries the previous night when my TV remote died.

Exasperated, I move the car back into my parking space. I throw my bag and CD player into the trunk – I drive a convertible and therefore can’t leave them in the cabin – and race to the elevator. This time I decide to wait. I push the button. I wait. And wait. I can’t hear the elevator moving. I push the button again. I wait. I breathe a heavy breath and go flying back up the stairs, across one hall, up two more flights and onto the third floor. Inside, I grab the remote, open it up, shove the batteries into my pocket and leave the now empty remote on the couch. This trip down to the garage I forgo the elevator all together and just use the stairs.

And of course, once I get all the way down, disaster has struck; my roommate has arrived home in the split seconds that I was either upstairs or in the stairwells. Her car is now behind mine, blocking it. Fortunately I keep a spare key for her car on my key ring. I move her car, move my car, move her car back into the parking space and finally, finally make it out of the parking garage.

I make one pit stop immediately in which I turn off the car, unlock the trunk and retrieve my CD player, insert the batteries and hit play. The music blares and I am off.

Three minutes into my drive, my cell phone rings. It is my roommate. “I thought you were home. Your car was parked downstairs.” “I was,” I reply, “but we missed each other I guess. I took the stairs.” My roommate chuckles. “Ok. well, I’ll just see you when you get back. Oh and, hey, what happened to the remote?” she asks.