Key-Lock Anxiety
I suffer from key-lock anxiety. Before I even arrive at a locked door, I finger the key in my pocket. I anticipate fitting the key in the lock. Will I be able to hold it steady enough to insert? Will the insertion be complete so all the teeth will engage all the tumblers? Will the key turn in the lock?
I have some excuse for my anxiety now that I have developed an essential tremor. Not related to Parkinson’s, the doctor assures.
“I can prescribe you a pill for it. No need to tremble like that,” he says.
“Thanks. Are there any side effects?”
“Nothing serious. Just possible dry mouth, headaches, arrhythmia, kidney failure—the usual things.”
I decline the prescription.
Even before my tremor began, I suffered from key-lock anxiety. The first time was when my parents entrusted me with the key to our apartment. “Try it,” my boozy father said. It seemed a reasonable request: Why should a nine-year-old be entrusted with a house key without first showing that he can use it? But as I thought about trying to use it, I began to fear the consequences if I failed. Would my father fly into a rage, strip the belt out of his trouser loops, and thrash me with it? Would he just whip me with my trousers on or yank them down and slash my bare flesh?
“Go ahead, Paulie Boy,” my mother said.
“Get with it,” said Dad.
“Why can’t I have a key too?” whined my little sister.
I approached the door, tentatively pointed the key at the lock, then addressed it to the keyhole.
Clink.
The key tapped against the cylinder, a fraction of an inch from the hole. I looked up at my father. His encouraging smile had given way to a frown. “Try again, you boob,” he said.
Again I aimed the key at the hole. It struck just below the hole, then slipped a quarter of an inch up into it. I could feel the sweat on the back of my neck. My ears buzzed. I lost focus. Then I began to push the key in, but my sweaty fingers made it slip out and fall on the floor.
“What’s wrong with your son?” my father asked my mother, and his hands went to his belt buckle.
“Oh, Kurt, give him some space,” my mother said. “I’m sure he can do it. Paul, pick up the key and try again.”
I picked up the key and tried again. Just as the key entered the hole, I closed my eyes and held my breath. I let the key have its head and magically it went all the way in.
“Hurrah,” said my father.
“That’s right, Paul,” my mother cooed. “Now turn the key to make it lock.”
I turned the key but it stopped at half a turn. I strained to turn it farther. I used both hands, but still it wouldn’t budge.
“You klutz,” said my father. “Think a minute. What’s stopping the key? Why won’t it go farther in that direction?”
A light bulb went on in my head. I sheepishly turned the key in the other direction and the tongue shot out of the lock.
“This calls for a drink!” said my father.
Once when I was in my thirties I brought a woman home to my apartment in Greenwich Village. She was beautiful and I was elated that she had agreed to leave the bar with me. I had no trouble opening the door to the building. As we walked upstairs I began to think of putting the key in my door lock. All that stood between me and sex with this beautiful and tipsy woman was an attack of key-lock anxiety. I clenched my apartment key in my fingers and imagined sliding it into the lock without mishap. If only I’d lived on the first floor. By the time we’d trudged up to the fifth floor I felt the sweat on the back of my neck and my vision blurred. My hand shook but the key slid into the lock. Reassured, I smiled at the woman and turned the key. Or tried to. It was a cold night and the hallway was cold and the key in the lock stuck. I tried several times to ease the key in the cylinder but it wouldn’t turn. “Having trouble, Baby?” the woman said. “Uh, just a little,” I admitted. Then I put my glove on and twisted the key forcefully. And it broke off in my hand.
By the time the emergency locksmith had come and removed the broken blade of the key and opened the door, the beautiful woman had left and taken a taxi home—at my expense. I threw the broken stump of the key into the trash.
*
There is no happy ending to key-lock anxiety. Actually, there is no end to it. Despite years of therapy. I did learn that the answer to the question “Your place or mine?” is “Yours.”
*