I'd just left town on a business trip when Beryl Chavez from unit 701 sent me a message.
She wanted the passcode to my garage lock. Something urgent had come up, she said, and she needed to park there for a couple of days.
I figured good neighbors were worth more than distant relatives, so I gave it to her.
Three days later, the job was done and I headed home.
When I pulled into the underground garage, I stopped cold.
Someone had swapped the lock for a brand-new one.
My garage. The one I'd paid $40,000 for, then spent another $10,000 renovating.
And I couldn't park my own car in it.
——
I messaged Beryl. No response.
Called her. She didn't pick up.
I called twice more. Still nothing.
After a moment's thought, I called property management.
The person on the line said they'd noted it and would send someone down to take a look.
About twenty minutes later, a security guard showed up. Mid-forties, flashlight dangling from one hand.
He circled the garage door once, swept the beam over the new lock, then over the door frame.
Then he turned to me: "Got it down. Head home and wait for us to follow up."
And he left.
I stood there for a long time, the anger building slow and steady.
I'd paid $40,000 for this garage. Another $10,000 on the renovation.
Epoxy-coated floor, wall-mounted shelving, motion-sensor lighting I'd picked out myself.
All I'd done was lend it out for two days.
And now I was the one locked out.
I called Beryl again.
It rang over a dozen times. Still no answer.
I sent a message: "Mrs. Chavez, what happened with the garage lock? Please call me back as soon as you can."
Five minutes. No reply.
I scrolled back through our chat history. Three days ago, her message read:
"Alison Simmons, honey, what's the passcode to your garage lock? Something came up and I need to borrow it for a couple days to park."
I'd thought it was only two days, neighbor to neighbor, no big deal. So I told her.
She'd even replied:
"Thank you so much!"
Two days. That was the deal.
Three had passed.
The lock was changed. The woman was unreachable.
I stood in the garage, staring at that black combination lock, and the longer I looked at it, the angrier I got.
I pulled out my phone and searched for a locksmith nearby.
The guy said he could be there in thirty minutes.
I called property management again.
A different man picked up this time. I explained the whole situation from the top.
His answer: "The security team already reported this to us. Management is handling it."
"Handling it until when, exactly?"
"I can't say for sure. Just wait for us to follow up."
The same runaround, the same empty script.
I told him I wasn't waiting. I'd already called a locksmith, and this lock was coming off today.
He went quiet for two seconds, then said, "You might want to let us know before you open it. Just to avoid any disputes."
Unbelievable.
When the lock got changed, they didn't lift a finger. Now that I was getting it removed, suddenly they were worried about disputes.
The locksmith arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule.
He rolled up on a scooter, a toolbox strapped to the back.
He looked the lock over and said it was a tough brand to pick clean. He'd have to break it. Was I okay with that?
I told him as long as it opened, I didn't care how.
He said alright, and quoted me $260.
He'd just set down his toolbox when hurried footsteps echoed from the elevator bay.
I turned. Beryl was half-jogging toward us, hair in disarray, looking like she'd bolted straight out of her apartment.
She wasn't even close yet, but her voice reached me first:
"What do you think you're doing? What the hell are you doing?"
"Is that your lock? Who said you could open it?"
Beryl barreled up to me, gasping for breath, face flushed beet red.
