The Night We Got Locked Out

My roommate and I locked ourselves out of our apartment at eleven p.m. on a Friday in February. Phones inside. Keys inside. Both of us in socks, having stepped into the hallway to check a strange noise that turned out to be the building's radiator.

We knocked on our neighbor's door, a man in his seventies named Otto, whom we'd only ever nodded to in the elevator. He opened it in a plaid robe, listened to our story and said, "Well, come in. I'll make cocoa."

The locksmith couldn't come for two hours. Otto played us records from his collection, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, and told us about being a jazz drummer in Berlin in the 1960s. He showed us his old drumsticks. He taught us to play gin rummy and beat us both badly.

When the locksmith finally came, we almost didn't want to leave. Now we have Otto over for dinner every month. Best lockout ever.