Okay, so here I am, tethered to the bed with real-deal police officer issued handcuffs, two broken keys down, with the clock ticking us closer to the time I’d have to go into work.
B_ started reassuring me that everything would be okay. His friend who was a cop would be working this morning and could come free me from the bed, and that I could make it to work on time. He called his friend; no answer. He called again; no answer. He started looking desperately in his tools for something, anything, to free me.
Now, I must say, I was an incredibly good sport throughout this situation. Most girls would be pretty pissed off from the whole almost getting branded while handcuffed after a good paddling prank, let alone being indefinitely handcuffed to a new boyfriend’s bed, but not me. I laughed harder and harder, as B_ became increasingly frantic. Never before had I seen him so serious! And what an absurd situation we were in! All before 7 AM!
At one point, B_ said, “You’re writing this in your head right now, aren’t you. I can see it on your face.” And he was totally right: it seemed like the perfect little comical interlude to our cult-classic romance.
After much banging around in closets and kitchen drawers, B_ scurried back to the bedroom with a little tool that looked like it could scurry right through my wrist, if it were to bounce off handcuffs. I am now told that it’s a Dremel with a cutting disc. Cute little slicer, it is.
I’m not gonna lie, trepidation set in once he started slicing through one of the metal links that connected the handcuffs. It dawned on me that even if he made it through that link, I’d still be in a bit of a pickle. See, B_ had handcuffed my left hand to the headboard directly, which means that unlinking the chain would leave one cuff on the headboard, and the other on my left wrist. I immediately starting considering wardrobe options. Even the cleverest empire sleeve would seem awkward and clunky when hiding a handcuff.
I started wondering what the seemingly nonjudgmental devout Catholic woman where I worked would think if she caught a glimpse of my cuff. I already knew she hadn’t been laid in years, and that she had maybe never been laid properly, EVER, because her ex-husband was gay, and from the way she spun the story, he did not sound like he was too liberal in his repression. It was safe to say, this situation, and my subsequent accessory, were out of her range.
Finally, B_’s friend called back. B_ answered the phone, saying, “Hey man, can you come by? I handcuffed my girlfriend to the headboard, and the two keys I have for them both broke off in the lock.” He said he’d come by as soon as he could, in a half hour to an hour.
By this point, B_ had carved a divot into the link, and he was on a mission. We brainstormed potential names for our jewelry line based off this experience. Some number of patient minutes passed, and soon enough, I was freed from the headboard and B_ was handing over the broken keys, saying, “Here, you can make earrings out of these to match your bracelet.” I went home, got ready for work, and went back to B_’s for a drive by uncuffing. His friend pulled up right in front of his apartment building on Piedmont Ave., I stuck my arm in the passenger window while he told me that I may be out of luck, I may have to go to a locksmith. A couple seconds later we heard the click of freedom, and B_ and I showered his friend with Thank Yous.
When I showed up at Cesar that night, the bartender told me he’d heard a story about me. I said, “Oh, yeah, the first jewelry he ever gave me. So romantic…”
He loved telling that story, and even though I could’ve easily been embarrassed by him broadcasting it to his friends, I kind of loved that he took such pride in it. The story is just so us. And he was right about me writing it in my head as it happened, so I would’ve been a hypocrite to care.
But the best part of that whole story wasn’t in the plan to write it down…it was living it in a way that would be worth writing down.