Locked and Loaded

On the Saturday before Thanksgiving, my husband was predictably antsy to get out of the family car. After all, he had a turkey to brine because every couple needs to cook an oversized bird during the pandemic.

“Just put the receipt for your oil change with the other maintenance records in the glove box,” he said over his shoulder as he hopped out of the passenger seat.

To my credit, I promptly leaned over and tugged on the latch of the glove compartment. I grunted when the tiny door wouldn’t budge.

“Well, I obviously don’t have the right leverage,” I muttered to myself as I walked around the minivan.

Opening the side of the vehicle, I slung my purse onto the front console and proceeded to pull at the handle of the stubborn glove box with all my might. Resourcefully, I attempted to use the tools at my disposal, but my key merely twisted fluidly inside the lock. No matter what I did, the small door held tight.

“I need to talk to you,” I said to my husband as I came into the kitchen.

“Right now?” he asked, looking up from his plump fifteen-pound turkey.

“Yes,” I said. “I can’t open the glove compartment of my car.”

“It’s probably just stuck. Did you use your key?”

“Yes. I tried everything. I’m telling you it won’t open, no matter what I do.”

With a frown, he dropped the turkey onto a bed of fresh herbs and washed his hands. He marched out to the garage as I followed closely behind him. We didn’t speak because words were unnecessary. After years of marriage, I could practically read his mind.

He yanked open the side door of the minivan and started to pull on the opening of the glove box. After a few fruitless tugs, he put the key in the lock and applied some pressure. When the door still failed to open, my husband resorted to his training as an engineer. He punched the dashboard and started to utter obscenities.

“You obviously have too much junk in there,” he growled. “I’m going to have to take this back to the mechanic, because I don’t want to break it.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said. Explaining our problem to service technician seemed like the least that I could do.

We submerged our turkey safely into a sea of salted water and headed back to the auto repair shop. After waiting in line, I calmly explained our predicament to the certified mechanic. He smiled at me the way people smile at little old ladies that need directions.

“Keys, please,” he said as started to examine the glove compartment. I handed him my entire bundle of car fobs and door openers and stood back to watch the master at work. After a full minute, he straightened up and started to scratch his head.

“Lady, it’s stuck,” he announced unceremoniously.

I nodded. My husband shot me an angry look.

“I’m gonna have to drill out the lock,’ he told us. “I’m gonna need to order another lock. We’ll call you when the part comes into the shop and then we can fix it.”

On the way home, my husband gifted me with a predictable “discussion” about the importance of tidiness. I decided that silence was golden and my best option for wedded bliss.

“And the worst part is that your registration is in the glove compartment. What will you tell a policeman if you get stopped?” my husband asked.

I shrugged. What could I say? Law enforcement would probably give me a ticket and another lecture about the importance of orderliness.

After a week of waiting, the new lock finally arrived at the repair shop. My husband took the car in for the appointment.

“Well, it’s fixed. Christmas came early,” he said when he returned home. “Look at how much stuff you had packed into the glove box,” he added while pouring a small mountain of junk onto the counter. The pile included ten years of car records, a battered ice scraper, broken CDs, and petrified snacks.

“I’m going to do better,” I assured him.

He snorted and laughed. More than thirty years had cured him of unrealistic expectations.

“January will be here before you know it and I’ll add neatness to my yearly resolutions,” I declared, meaning every word. “I’ll do it,” I promised, “just as soon as I check procrastination off my list first.”