Keys to the Kingdom

"Anthony, please come around, something is lost and it cannot be found.”—prayer to St. Francis

While I was freaking, my sister was praying.

St. Anthony delivered on his title as the patron saint of lost things last week, after my 5-minute stroll in the park took a sharp turn on to Psycho Street.

We finally had decent weather around these parts, with the sun shining and the temperature so pleasant you could almost forget we’re living in the middle of a plague.

After work Wednesday, I had to get out of the house for a quick hike around Shore Road Park before coming home to fix dinner.

I’ve been working from home since Covid-19 muscled into our lives—and thank God I have a job—and I’ve taken to wearing gym pants at “the office,” since there’s no sense in being all dressed up with nowhere to go.

I don’t like to wear the casual duds outside of the house unless I’m doing my power walk because the pants don’t have decent pockets and I tend to cram everything except the Encyclopedia Britannica onto my person before exiting my crib.

But on this day, I figured what the hell? I’ll be right back and it’s not likely I’ll be run into the Duke of Windsor in a Bay Ridge park—unless he’s really confused.

So, I put on the mask and gloves, made the loop around the park, stopping to take a few photos on the outside world, and then headed home.

And I just about to cross Shore Road when I noticed something was missing.

My house keys.

This was impossible. I never lose my house keys. I’ve misplaced them a few times in my house, but I always knew I’d find them sooner or later. This was different.

I frantically checked my jacket and pants pocket, giving myself a pat-down that would’ve made Sgt. Friday proud, but the keys were gone.

I raced home to catch my landlady before she went out, but it was too late. I was locked out.

Mock and Key

I whipped around and head to the park to retrace my steps while my mind split in two. The largest part of my brain quickly got busy getting angry--at myself for losing keys, and at the Fates for allowing me to lose my keys.

But there was also barely audible voice, way down below the crazy, that was giving me solid advice. It told me to ask a young woman who was tending the park’s garden if anyone had turned in my keys.

No sale, but she said she’d keep an eye out for them, even though I knew beyond all doubt that no one would ever turn in my keys in a million years.

I called my sister who has a set of my keys, and who also reminded me that—duh!--there’s a lockbox on my front door with a set of keys that we had put out there when I was laid up from knee surgery.

Great. The immediate problem was solved and I wouldn’t be sleeping among the squirrels. Now to find the missing set.

I charged back into the park, my honker to the ground and my mouth muttering obscenities, when the gardener flagged me down.

Remember that bit about no one turning in my keys in a million years?

Yeah, well, uh, it turned that a couple did turn in my keys—in under 10 minutes.

“Are these yours?” the gardener asked.

“Yes,” I blubbered, clutching my keys as if they were family. “Yes!”

I thanked this woman profusely, we did the coronavirus elbow bump, and she gave the credit to those two strangers who had turned my keys in.

And that’s an important reminder to be thoughtful of others and to pass on your good fortune.

That couple could’ve kept on walking, but they didn’t. They made the effort to turn my keys over to somebody in charge.

“I prayed to St. Anthony,” my sister told me, after I called her to give her the good news.

Yes, of course, that’s what I should’ve been doing instead of having one of my classic conniption fits.

When things are lost, that’s the time to ask for help—both mortal and divine.