out of the toilet

This was not my first time.  Tenth, probably, and never a problem.  But this time, the lock on the bathroom door in my favorite Manhattan bistro wouldn't turn to open.  Press in, to the left, that's how it always moves, but nothing...

I considered how long I could survive.  Plenty of water, for sure.  A place to eliminate.  And, having finished dinner, food to keep me going for many hours.

Still.  This space wasn't much bigger than a coffin.  And I had nothing to read.

So I banged on the door.  Hard.  Several times.

Rich and a friend who had joined us for the evening were, fortunately, sitting near the door.

The waiter said he couldn't do anything from the outside.

Rich told me to turn, turn, turn.

"I can't do it for you," he said, and walked away.

Shit.

No.  Think.  That would be more productive.

Press the lock.  Softly, slowly, with calm and assurance of the outcome, turn -- to the right.

My companions show no surprise when I rejoin them.

Pretty good metaphor, no?

Or, at least -- I'll be careful about locking any doors I can't open.

Candace