Mission Improv-able

Time was of the essence.

My neighbor had found herself in a bit of a pickle. Having nearly reached her destination two states away, she realized she had left something of vital importance on her kitchen counter. She also realized she had left all of her extra house keys in the bottom of her handbag, which was on the passenger seat next to her.

To have to turn around now and come home, just to fulfill this necessary task, would totally submarine her plans for the remainder of the week.

Which is where I come in ... or so explains her voice on speakerphone in my car ... making me an offer I couldn't refuse.

"The mission, should you choose to accept it," said this neighbor in no-way-near-any-similar-verbiage, "involves breaking into my house .... and you might need a ladder.”

“Who's ladder a'we gonna take?” I wonder in my head.

"You know these transmissions are probably being recorded," said my son, who was also likely wishing he didn't have to go to the sports-ball practice I was carting him to so he could witness my comedic attempts at sanctioned felony instead.

"It's not a crime if the homeowner ASKS you to break in.”

"You know what I mean," he says as he grabs his gear and pulls himself out of the car. "I could help."

Of course, I know what such "help" entails.

He wants to "spot" me as I attempt to scale the exterior wall using an outdoor gate valve and an empty garden hose holder. He wants to "cheerlead" as I struggle to balance while using a piece of lumber that I've found in the garage as a rude tool to pry open the window. He will "commiserate" when the shim proves to be too wide to get between the upper and lower sashes.

He will "suggest" I try a stick of kindling from our carport, calling it a better fit, without lowering his phone camera or offering to find one for me.

Really, he just wants to record this caper - to preserve my posterior for posterity - as I slither through a window of a house that's not mine if I somehow, miraculously manage to find a way in. And then, he'd like to account for everything I might literally break that requires skilled labor to repair. 

"I don't need that kind of help," I yelled through the now-closed car door as he loped away. 

But ... I did need exactly that kind of help.

The window, it turns out, was locked.

As luck (and texting) would have it, a mutual friend turned up to lend a hand.

We circled the house, looking for other ways in. Finding none, we nearly gave up. Even calling our friend with the disappointing news. Walking across the lawn toward my house, though, I noticed a tiny gap between the sash and sill of a living room window. A little pressure from the tips of my fingers was all it took to slide the thing up. 

I screamed and ran around the front hoping to stop our mutual friend before she drove off. "We're in!”

A leg up and a plant stand on wheels were all that stood between us and the task at hand. 

Mutual friend, smiling, appeared at the now unlocked door holding up the rescued item and handing it off for the next step in the mission.

"When does the post office close?”

"Google says you have 17 minutes to complete this mission or the entire plot self-destructs!”

I know this is the easiest part. The agents at our local P.O. have mad skills for the delivery of special packages, even in a last-minute pinch. The self-destruct part happens when I have to debrief the boy after I collect him, a little late, from sports-ball.