This week’s story was told to me by my friend Wanda, over drinks at the Futuro Club. It’s a place for people who love technology, or who at any rate are willing to put up with it.
Wanda and her husband Tim recently bought a new “keyless” car, which Wanda borrowed last month to drive to work.
Wanda works in a clinic as a surgical assistant.
“I really had to stop at the ladies’ room before I got to my locker,” she said, “but I was running late, and carrying a lot of stuff — pocketbook, lunch, and scrubs to change into — which is probably why, just as I got into the stall, I heard a ‘ker-plunk!’ ”
It was Tim’s remote, keyless “key” that had just fallen into the toilet.
“Yuck! What did you do?” I asked her.
“I stuck my bare hand right down in the water to rescue the key.
Then immediately washed the key with soap and water. And scrubbed my hands. When I got to the surgery prep area, I soaked the key in alcohol for a few minutes, while I washed my hands again. And again.”
Then Wanda called Tim, who told her to take the remote apart and let it dry out. “He’s telling me over the phone: ‘Now, pry it open. With something narrow. But don’t cut yourself! Yes, I’m sure it opens. Would I tell you to do this if I didn’t know it would open?’ ”
Eventually, Wanda got the remote open and took out its battery to dry. At day’s end, she rushed to her car, praying the remote would work.
“And did it?” I asked her.
“Of course not,” said Wanda. “However — I remembered that there is an actual metal key that pulls out of the remote, just for times like this, to get into the car.”
I toasted Wanda’s cleverness.
She continued. “What I forgot was, even though I’d just opened the door with a key, the alarm starts up. Just some beeps, to give time to put the metal key where it needs to go.”
“So where does the key go, in a keyless car?” I said. “Hey, that’s a tongue-twister.” I took another swig of my drink.
“That’s what I asked myself,” continued Wanda. “ ‘Where is that spot where you put the key?’ Then the alarm got serious. So I got out of the car, to get away from all the noise while I called Tim for help.”
“And? What did he say?”
“Nothing. He didn’t answer. I was starting to panic, but I gave myself a lecture: Okay, Wanda, you are an independent, technically savvy woman. You can deal with this on your own! So I went on-line — with my smart-phone — and found a labeled diagram of the car dashboard!”
“Attagirl!” I said. (Already, this puts Wanda so far ahead of me, I don’t want to tell you.)
She continued. “The diagram showed lots of stuff but no place for the key. So I got in, to look at the dashboard up close — with the alarm still screaming away — and I saw that there’s a panel on top of the dashboard that you pull up, with a compartment underneath. That has a rubber floor you pull out, and somewhere in there is where you put the key.
“Of course, I needed the flashlight app on my phone to see anything — the phone that was back in my purse on the hood of the car. So I got out to get to the phone.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned.
“Yup, that’s when the car door shut behind me, locking me out. With the metal key inside, on the seat.”
“And the alarm still going?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. But there’s a happy ending,” said Wanda, “thanks to cell phones — and Tim. Because this time he answered, and told OnStar to unlock the car.”
“To OnStar!” said several Futuro members at neighboring tables. “And Tim! and Wanda!”
Then Wanda bought everyone in the club a round of drinks.
Alas, the Futuro Club’s bartender is a robot, which means that, basically, you have to get your drinks yourself.
That’s when I snuck out and called my husband, who picked me up in a car with a real key, and brought us both safely home. Then I poured us each a nicely-aged glass of sherry and toasted the concept of husbands, be they new or of 30 years’ standing, who answer the phone, and save the day.
