Stories from the Campfire: BeefLoaf Locked Me Out

Welcome to the first of many (hopefully,) Section 108 Stories from the Campfire. It’s Mrs. Beef here with you all today to tell the story of the night BeeflLoaf locked me out of our home and the cops had to intervene.

Those of you who know us well, know we rarely fight. We truly get along most days except for:

Prior to our nuptials, Beef and I lived in a small, one-bedroom, dump-of-an-apartment on Clark street, just north Fullerton. It was great to go across the street for My Pi pizza, the cleaners were right below us (back when people dry-cleaned clothes), and there was a convenience store there, too. Being that we were in our 20s, we went out A LOT. And true to this day, sometimes, we went out separately.

On this particular night, Beef was out with friends, and I was out with other friends. When I arrived home after Midnight, I unlocked our door and started to push my way in. But there was a problem. The chain lock had been engaged. I wasn’t worried since the television inside was blaring and I could tell many lights were still on – so Beef was still awake. I knocked on the door and called through the opening. Nothing. I pounded on the door and yelled through the opening. Nothing. I glanced around at our neighboring doors, hoping I would only wake Beef and not all of them. I called our landline and could hear it ringing. Nothing. I used my Nokia to call Beef’s flip phone. Nothing. I sat down outside the door and waited. Nothing. I decided to go outside and have a cigarette and try again in five minutes.

While standing outside my building, I started to get worried. What if something happened to him? He does have asthma. Fortunately, I saw a big police wagon and ran into the street to flag them down. The police seemed less concerned that he was ill or injured and more that he had someone else up in the apartment with him. I knew this because after I lead them up to the unit, they made me wait outside, saying, “Miss, we don’t know what we are going to find in there. It’s best if you wait out here.”

They used bolt cutters to cut the chain, entered the apartment, headed to the bedroom and found BeefLoaf asleep in our bed. They woke him up to make sure he was alright – which he was, except for the near death scare of being woken up by police in the middle of the night.

You see, Beef usually came in after me. When he arrived home that night, he locked the chain out of habit, thinking I was already home. When he saw I wasn’t home, he had innocently forgotten locking the chain. When we moved out of that apartment a year later, and into our condo, the chain was still broken and in its holder. All thoughts of getting the security deposit were gone. But of course, that was also due to the large, red wine stain on the carpet in the living room. Maybe we’ll tell that story another time on Section 108 Stories from the Campfire.

-Mrs. BeefLoaf