Happiness is the Key

I work in a pub on weekends. Nothing glamorous, before you get any ideas. I clean it in the morning so it's nice and shiny for the punters and pissheads when the bar opens up again around midday. Last night I went to an open mic and performed some spoken word pieces and ended up getting fairly sauced with the collective of scoundrels I met there. Somewhere along the way I lost the Key to the pub. The pub that I work in. I'd taken it off my `key ring. I was passing my duties back to the  friend who had given me the job after he quit it. At first it wasn't a big deal. I convinced myself I had left it at home. As the night went on I remembered putting the Key in my wallet before I left home. It was no longer there. I became sweaty and anxious.
I swear to you, Dear Reader, that I searched that wallet at least five times to no avail. I rode home drunk at 3am, imagining myself fired for my lack of responsibility, embarrassed and angry. I came through the front gate with a clatter and promptly fell in the garden, dragging the bike and making so much noise that I woke my dog, who dutifully set to waking up the neighbourhood. In a state of controlled panic I tore quietly through the house, trying not to wake my Anna. Anna is a high school art teacher and much more sensible than I am. I emptied my backpack on the lounge-room floor and scrabbled through cigarette filters and scraps of paper in vain. I went through every piece of clothing in the basket, the washing machine, the bathroom and the same goddamn places five times over before I resigned to enter the bedroom. Resigned because I knew I'd woke my partner, drunk at 3am and resigned because I knew the Key wouldn't be there. My girlfriend though, delightful & caring loverthat  she is, was more concerned than annoyed. She understood my frantic pacing, my grunts and imprecations, as signs of deep distress and she empathised. So I turned on the light, I searched the room. Nothing
I crawled into bed like a wounded animal. I set an alarm early enough for a calm, sober search in the morning. Needless to say, I slept like shit and was awake before my alarm. All night, awake or asleep, I held the clean steel shape of the Key in my mind like a talisman. In the morning, mouth drier than dog shit, I stumbled into the icebox of a Melbourne bathroom in winter. Freezing tiles at 7am. No socks. I forced my hands to splash cold water in my red eyes. Goosebumps pebbled my skin and my bones ached. I searched the same places again, and again. No Key. I messaged my friend who was taking over the job and told him the situation. His response was brief and infuriating.
"Ah Shit." He said. "Keep looking."
The real problem here, readers, is that I had to be in Bendigo for the Writers Festival on Thursday morning. It was Wednesday morning. I had a full day of uni. I didn't have time for this shit but it was happening. One of those "This Is Your Life; And It's Ending All Of The Time" kind of situations. I crawled back into bed while my girlfriend looked on, dressing for work, her expression stuck halfway between amusement and sympathy. She kissed me when she left but my mind was on the phone call I had to make to my manager and friend. How exactly could I tell her that, a month into such a simple job, I'd done what she had said was the worst thing I could do? I messaged my girlfriend asking her to fossick through the car but I didn't have the energy or the heart to raise my hopes.
My phone buzzed. It wasn't there. I sighed.
My brain felt like a dead fish. I needed sleep. I set my alarm for 8:30 and tried to rest. I didn't find any but I tried, valiantly. I stayed in bed until 8:50, hugging my dog and willing my mind to go blank. It didn't. I got up and dressed myself. No shower or brushing of teeth, no breakfast or coffee. Those things are for real people who don't get drunk on a Tuesday and lose Really Important Things. In this frame of mind, Reader, I took one last lonely look in my wallet, in desperation, without hope. And the Key was there. Nestled between my cards, wrapped up in a scrap of paper like some gift from the gods. Ludicrously, perfectly pristine.
Relief and happiness melted me like drugs. I was vindicated and proud, blessed with the most sweet salvation of relief.
I made it to uni on time. I went to a meeting for the Institute of Latin American Studies where I'm an intern. I went to Spanish class. I understood things. I breezed through some lectures and had discussions about Literature and History. I'd done my readings and had thoughts to offer on them. Prepared statements. I had money in my pocket for food. It was raining but sometimes it was sunny, crisp and cold. I made it home in an hour and packed a bag. I made a sandwich, said my goodbyes and caught a train into the city.
I walked from Flinders St Station to meet my cleaner friend and hand over the Key on Russell St. Then back down Burke to Southern Cross. I beat the tram and got there with time to spare. As I walked through the city I felt the particular stirring in the gut I get from having a backpack, my two feet and a train trip somewhere in the country. I like that feeling like I like being hung-over, or feeling relieved. The truth feels pretty strong in me today and the truth is that today was a good day. Life is an Adventure for a few days and I'm falling asleep on a couch in Castlemaine.
Life is good.
Let the Festival Commence.