After our stop at Rue 57 I went to Duane Reade to pick up some SF Red Bull and some other drink mixing accoutrement while everyone else headed to the apartment to start getting ready for the evening out. As I walked into the lobby and said hi to the door man, Amanda was coming off the elevator and didn’t look too happy. Well it seems as if the door to our fabulous apartment was stuck – as in the lock was broken. Not a good thing. The door man was little to no help what so ever except to tell us we were pretty much screwed since the super had already left for the weekend. He suggested we call a locksmith – o yes, because I have a 212 locksmith on speed dial on my phone. So he was kind enough to call one for us and tell him to hurry it up. So here we were all running around in towels and pj bottoms and tank tops with half applied make up and hair in rollers and towels and anything else you can think of and there’s some random man whom we believe to be a locksmith standing in the door way with tools spread out everywhere and baracading us in.
He “fixes” the lock and we tell him thank you very much, blah blah blah, just thinking that of course he’ll just charge it to the apartment owners or the building or something. NOPE! He says it’ll be a bit less than $500! We tell him we don’t have that and go round and round with him about taking a card or a check – no he must have cash. So we all dug into our “secret” stash of shopping money and paid the man. The best part was when, as we were all heartily discussing the situation and telling him we didn’t have that kind of cash, he just looked at Brittany who had her name monogrammed on her towel wrap and said uh…. Brittany, you will have to go to the ATM.
Door fixed – drama over…
Got dressed, left apartment, no deaths of the door man or the locksmith.