This is Part Two of the Daniella and Michael chronicles. Agnes stars, but unconsciously. Without her narcoleptic tendencies, many many stories (at press time: 2) might never be born; thanks, Agnes.
Not too long ago it was the end of 21 Grams and in the single-digit morning hours that make parents kind of scary to think of when you stagger home because last they heard you finished work at five in the evening. We thought we’d stagger home. Having filled our stomachs lovingly with a mixture of Goldfish and Popcorn, we set out first to take our dishes to the kitchen before setting off. Agnes was unconscious. Fingers fumbled and Ceramic met Glass with an exclamatory clang. Agnes was unconscious, after further inspection. Laughing, the dishes were brought to the kitchen. I haphazardly proceeded to grab my jacket, sending coins a’pattering from the unzippered pocket across the hardwood in a busfare of cacophonic percussiony. Agnes was, again, unconscious. Again laughing, we set out to leave, never at any point registering concern.
Half an hour ago, history repeated itself. We were resting after taking in the most recent brilliance of Michel Gondry and the Paul Simon drive home when suddenly it was an early morning single-digit number. Parents awaited. Mine, the arrival not of me, but of the baby Cooper. We left and Agnes was Unconscious. In hindsight, this plays as the high-heeled pixie in a horror film, naive of all billowing cautionary music and all human intuition. Because When Mike And Daniella Do Routine Tasks… stories occur. We should know this by now.
After farewelling, and after all sanely hours of available help, I proceeded on to the parking level. I proceeded on to the parking level. I… this elevator is not moving. THIS ELEVATOR IS NOT MOVING. Up OR down. I’m not allowed to leave? I’m not allowed to stay? Agnes was unconscious. Twenty-six telephone calls with seven rings each unconscious.
Like water in the desert, a man walked in. I told him I was trapped and needed to get to the parkade and didn’t live here and wanted to leave. Before undoubtedly hammering the elevator door-close button in fear – which was silly because it was like Orange County Chopper Dude vs Lithe Urban Girl in Gumboots – he told me I needed a key. To leave?! Oh. This was going to be like in Paris when the currency exchange place “didn’t” accept “credit cards” despite the advertisement in the window bragging about Visa and Mastercard, you know, the obscure brands paying for exposure… and when they directed me to the bank which in turn directed me to the currency exchange place. I have learned to not play games with authoritative logic!
I stood in the lobby for eight seconds as there was nowhere else to stand, trying to understand how trapping a potential thief in a lobby near furniture and televisions that could be taken freely out the unlocked door was preferred to trapping a potential thief in a parkade behind a locked gate near locked and alarmed cars … the only grounds to hold such an absurd logic is that I am in fact, in to Thievery! Then, I reeled Mike back into the story as the only conscious person available to help and also as my Partner In Crime. Because if the world was going to do this to me, I was determined to have the LAST LAUGH.
After incessant cell and home calling, it was accepted that Agnes was not to be arisen. We stood in the lobby like deer. The elevators kept making beeping sounds indicating someone coming but people kept going from other floors into the parkade and not hitting the first floor. Call, call, fail, fail. The only reason this happened was for drama, because otherwise the story would have ended. I considered walking home and coming back in the morning, wondering if that was what the story wanted me to do, though coming home without the car would have impaled my parents with disdain so rank I would have probably lost my ears in the blast.
Suddenly someone was leaving the parkade. I ran outside and barely snuck under the gate, causing it to open anew…. only to shut again when I actually had the car and felt the home stretch was not too much false hope to fill myself with. I WAS IN JAIL. I sat the car on the ramp, not thinking because nothing made sense anymore! Each of us stood on either side of the bars, laughing at this jail situation and having no idea what to do next or what to do before next. Next didn’t yet exist, only now did, and now had me trapped indefinitely. Noise occured. “Help?” No one was there (liars!), aside from security cameras laughing at us. At least there will be some interesting footage for someone to squint at, of a couple teenage hooligans running around the parkade and getting trapped like gerbils. YOU’RE WELCOME. And your security system is totally illogical; you should be eaten by trees.
Luckily, some people do come home at two am on a Saturday night, and because it wasn’t a Wednesday night, I did eventually escape. I was met on the outside with not knowing how to unlock doors and a flurry of enthusiasm about potential blogging (also FREEDOM!) … like the time we made the Garlic Cake.
