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I’m smart enough to have at least everything backed up to the cloud should something ever happen to this particular laptop, which might not be far off. Regarding technology, she’s probably considered a dinosaur at four years old and has been into the repair shop more times over the last two years than I’ve seen my gynecologist in the last five.
“Gracias,” I tell him and hand him the amount of money plus a hefty tip for bringing me all the way out here.
He takes the cash, gives it a quick glance, and then nods at me, folding the cash in half and then stuffing it into the small pocket of his shirt.
“Gracias, senorita. Good luck,” he says.
He then quickly turns back to his side of the van and hustles back to his door, wrenching it open and climbing in before slamming it shut again.
I barely have my hands on my luggage before he flips around in the wide driveway and heads back out to the main road.
I grab my things and run for the door, splashing up more water up my legs the quicker I run, but I don’t care anymore. My laptop is the only thing I care about right now and it needs a dry place as quickly as possible.
The rainwater stings against my bare arms as I make a dash for the house.
None of the beach houses along the way seem to have any lights on inside, but at this point it’s past one in the morning. Is everyone asleep? Or is everyone smarter than me and sought accommodations not this close to the beach and the storm raging out in that vast, deep, dark ocean?
Running around the side of the house to get to the front, which faces the ocean, I'm relieved when I notice that the front looks to have a covered porch. However, I noticed that the porch doesn’t look nearly as nice as the photos.
Isn’t that always how it is these days?
Nothing is ever quite as it seems online anymore.
At this point, I don’t even care what the place looks like as long as it’s dry inside and has a nice, comfy bed to sleep on.
Though if I’m making requests, a nice long shower wouldn’t hurt. And if I can be hopeful for a moment, maybe the last vacationers left some chamomile tea to help calm the knots in my stomach from this entire nerve-racking day.
I should be completely consumed with the question of how I’m going to sleep tonight with the wind and rain raging on tonight, but the relief of finally making it to my rental where I have a place to rest my head tonight, unlike all the people I saw in the airport, is currently counteracting my fears.
A motion light on the front porch kicks on and nearly has me tripping over my feet. It took me by surprise, but only for a second, when I thought that someone the renters before me may be stranded too and decided to stay in the house. But when I don't hear the sound of the front door opening, I look over at the light and notice that it's just a standard solar-powered motion detector light. I’m grateful to no longer be in the dark.
I step up onto the porch from the side of the house and walk up to the brick-colored front door. The storms are even louder under this cover as the rain puddles on the metal roof of the house. A keypad sits on the top of the handle, just as the instructions in the email mentioned.
I had a chance to look over the check-in list that the rental company sent to Sheridan as I was waiting for my flight to board this morning.
With my luggage sitting right side up next to me, and the rain no longer trying to drown me, I pull up my phone and look for the house code to enter into the keypad attached to the door.
Door Code #7777
I looked at the email again and reviewed the four-digit code. It seems a little too easy, if you ask me, but I’m too tired and too wet to think any more about it. Maybe they do that on purpose to make it easier for people to remember the code.
That’s certainly a logical explanation.
I could see myself forgetting a complex code, too, after spending a long day on the beach.
I step forward and input the four digits.
I give it a second but the code reader flashes red like I entered the wrong code.
It’s hard to imagine how I could have entered that incorrectly, but I’m so tired that maybe I only hit three of the four digits.
I try a second time, but again, the code reader flashes red at me again.
Damn it.
I check my email again and read through the entire thing. Unfortunately, no other code is found in the email.
I question whether or not there was a door at the back of the house that this code could belong to, but the instructions clearly state that the code belongs to the front door, and all I remember about the back of the house was a garage door—no man door. I could walk back around and try to see if there is a code to the garage door, but I am not stepping out into that rain until I’m sure that I’ve exhausted all other avenues to get in from this entrance.
