The Handover

by Mike Benn
Having paid the final installment for the purchase of our new apartment, it was time for the formal hand-over signifying that the flat was officially ours. I thought that this would be a simple – "here are the keys…best of luck" affair, but it was not to be. Meeting at the apartment, the Seller started by handing over the usual assortment of keys…just as I had expected. So far, quite predictable.
Then our Seller starting describing the remote control for entrance to the tenant's underground car-park. The remote control had four buttons. If one enters from Golan St., this button opens the first boom gate. This other button then opens the second gate from this entrance (or a different second gate, when leaving the parking area). C'mon dear Reader…try and keep up with me now!
However…if one enters from the Shemesh St. Entrance, then one only needs to press this third button, which will activate the sliding gate. There was also a fourth button…which had no relevance to us, but was obviously part of an international IQ test (which we were at high risk for failing completely!)
OK. I've more or less got a handle on this, I thought to myself, as I quickly drew a child-like sketch of the remote, marking which buttons would activate which gate. (I wonder if Batman had such an intricate security system in order to enter or leave the BatCave in his Batmobile!) In my now, semi-confused state, I had this mental image of somehow pressing the wrong combination of buttons, resulting in every boom gate in Kfar Saba automatically rising…except for the one that I was facing…with a long line of cars backed up behind me, filled with irate Israelis incessantly honking on their horns!
"Maybe it's best if I take you on a walking tour of the underground levels of the building", our Seller remarked. (Maybe the dazed look on my face had prompted his suggestion). "Sounds like a great idea", Carmela & I answered in unison. So began our Hansel & Gretel-like walk into the unknown! "First we'll take the lift down to the level where your cars will be parked. Remember, it's on the -1 level." Alighting on the minus-one level, it was just a few steps to a door which led us out of the main residential building, to the underground car-park. We were now facing the sliding gate enclosing our parking spots. To open this gate, I just needed to press Button No.2 on my remote…or was it No.3…..Hmmmm. I'm certainly going to cut down on the cost of running my car, if I can't ever access my car!
It had been a simple matter to leave the building, but to get back into the building via the same door; one has to press in a 4-number code to unlock it. "Ohhh..Kaay"…I said hesitantly, jotting down this number.
"And over there", our Seller continued, "is the door leading into the complex containing your very own personal storeroom." Approaching this door, I noted that once again this was a coded, locked door (with, of course, a different 4-number code!) Why anyone would even consider breaking into our storeroom – which, no doubt, would be chocker-block full of a 20-year accumulation of worthless shmontzes- is beyond me! After having received and dutifully recorded this new set of numbers we opened the door and entered another series of narrow corridors. Along these corridors, every few meters there were identical-looking doors, each opening to a separate tenant's storeroom... "Your storeroom is this way", our Seller rambled on, in his best Tour Guides voice. "You walk straight ahead till you come to this T-junction. Then left till you reach the next T-junction. Then right, straight ahead, left at the final T-junction…and here we are!" (Had our Seller been using some hidden homing device that had enabled him to arrive, in such an effortless fashion, right outside his storeroom?!
This underground maze of corridors was incredible. It was a totally different world down here. I expected any minute to bump into that masked character from "Phantom of the Opera" (who, no doubt, would be mumbling to himself…"Where IS my friggin storeroom!)
"Now that we've covered your parking spots and your storeroom, now it's time to move on to the Garbage Room" our Seller continued. "Let's go back into the building ,take the lift down to the -2 level, out through this door, turn left…and here we are at the Garbage Room". BUT…to get back into the building, there was yet ANOTHER coded locked door. (…and you guessed it…a DIFFERENT code number!) By the way, did I mention that the door of the main entrance to the lobby of our building also had a code number lock…Five digits – just to keep us on our toes.
It was at this stage that I began feeling nostalgic for our former apartment, which, all-in-all, required only two keys to enable one to get from the street to inside the flat. No remote controls developed by NASA. No coded locked doors. Ah! Sweet memories.
Despite the fact that we had already paid the last installment on our new apartment, I wondered if it was too late to pull out of the deal. Surely there must be some fine print in the contract which allowed one to break the contract due to mental stress brought on by having to memorize a series of four or five digit numbers.
However, we had passed the point of no return, and there were now only a few things left to do. Photocopying the list of codes for all the doors and the diagram of the remote control, I ceremoniously handed out a copy to each member of the family. With one hand on the Bible, each household member was sworn to secrecy, and instructed that if caught, they were to immediately swallow this list (cleverly photocopied onto rice paper). I then encoded the numbers in my Palm Pilots address book (under "H"…for "Help, I'm lost"
Finally, for those of you who have often asked me where I get the time to write these little tales of mine, here's one of the answers. Writing these stories helps to pass the time away while waiting for the search party…which I'm sure has been sent out since it's been over 72 hours since I stepped out of our apartment and called out to my wife…"Just taking the garbage out…Be back in a few minutes!"

P.S.
You can read other short
stories and anecdotes
in Mike's book...