Every year the day after Christmas, my family goes to an escape room. If you haven’t been to one of these, imagine being locked in a room for an hour with a bunch of puzzles to solve. The puzzles are logic and word games and math. Also, there are secret doors and boxes and keys. You can ask for clues.
But my family doesn’t like to ask for clues. We pride ourselves on being able to figure our way out with no help, and we ALWAYS win the game.
Okay, except for one year, which we call The Year of the Zombie. What happened was the escape room was the usual, but on top of having to solve the puzzles, there was a zombie chained to the wall. If he touched you, you were out of the game, and every ten minutes, his chain would extend by a foot. By the end, we were all screaming and huddling in one corner. And, I forgot my reading glasses. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was some of the puzzles were broken! There was no way any of us could’ve solved them! (We don’t count that year.)
This year the twist was we were the ones chained up. At the beginning of the game, the attendant handcuffed each of us to a bed frame in the center of the room. The hour clock started ticking, and if we wanted to solve any of the puzzles or try to unlock anything, we had to shuffle around all together dragging the bed along with us. To make things even more difficult, the room was dark and there was only one small lamp, and it was hard to reach with our handcuffed hands.
Finally, like thirty minutes in, our son-in-law noticed a key hanging on the wall, and we all carted the bed across the room to get it. It was the key to unlock the handcuffs, but it took a while to free ourselves, and the time was winding down, and we knew if we wanted to get out, we’d have to ask for help.
Clue after clue after clue, and it wasn’t enough. We lost. This is clearly a metaphor.
Everyone stuck together and no way out unless you admit you need help, and even then, you still run out of time. We had fun though.
We went home and played more games. Then I worked a shift at the library, and this has nothing to do with anything, but one of our regular patrons came in to read the newspaper how he does every day. This guy and I have a history with each other. A few years ago he made a complaint that I was “very loud.” I had been helping another patron who was hard of hearing, and admittedly, I was shouting.
This annoyed the guy who wanted to read the newspaper. After the incident, I didn’t want to deal with him, and I can’t speak for the guy, but I think he had a similar feeling about me. He would rush into the library and scuttle along the edge of the room to avoid the information desk where I was sitting, and I wouldn’t say good morning to him how I usually had.
A few days of that, and I let it go and started saying good morning again even as he was scuttling along the wall. We did this for a year. Another year went by when the library was closed for renovations. When we reopened, the guy walked through the door normally and passed the desk. I said good morning, and he nodded, but I still felt a twinge of tenseness between us. Six more months passed.
The other day, when I was shelving, I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and truthfully, I was relieved I wasn’t at the desk, and we wouldn’t have to go through our awkward Good-morning/nod dance, but then, the guy surprised the heck out of me by walking straight toward me. He stopped a few feet away and smiled.
Happy New Year, he said.
I smiled back and said, Happy New Year to you.
He walked off to the newspapers, and I blinked at the bookshelves. I don’t know why, but I was tearing up. There is a metaphor in here too, but I will leave you to puzzle it out.
In the meantime, I wish you too, dear Reader, a happy new year, whoever you are and where, however you celebrate, or don't. I suspect the world for many of us may feel stressful this year, and never mind the potential for zombies and crochety patrons. We're stuck with them, but we have each other too, and that is not a small thing.
It's everything, actually.
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