midnight caller

As a child, I would get scared at bedtime.

I had to look under my bed and my sister's bed to make sure no rattlesnakes were hiding. And in the bedroom closet too ... ya know, just to be sure. Oh, and we lived in a city 20 miles south of Boston, where crime was low and snakes of any kind were non-existent.

If I were home with my sister, babysitting our younger sister, I couldn't fall asleep until I saw my parent's car pull in the driveway. 

I am very far from being a young teen, and I still cannot easily sleep in a house — and especially a house where I'd be alone. I would be up all night, hearing every sound and imagining those sounds attached to a bad-intentioned intruder.

Reading In Cold Blood at a young age kind of ruined it for me. And today, I likely watch too much Dateline. Listen to too many Casefile true-crime podcasts. And read too many thrillers. I know it's not rational, but I cannot sleep alone in a house.

So for the past 40 years, I have only lived in doormen buildings. 

Until recently, our night doorman was a kindly, non-aggressive man who would pose zero threat to anyone. And, because he worked 11pm to 7am, he mostly slept. 

Still, I would always sleep soundly just knowing he was there.

Last night I am in bed watching TV. It's about midnight. I vaguely hear my doorbell. Maybe it's the TV. I mute it.  But then I hear it distinctly,  a light rapping at my door. And then the doorbell again.

Now I am scared. No one ever comes by and knocks on my door. And certainly not at this late hour.

I call out asking who's there. I hear a familiar voice in response. "It's me. Open up."

It's my son. 

Locked out of his apartment on the westside. Absent a phone, wallet, ID, and credit card. The door locked behind him as he briefly went out in his hallway. He lives in a brownstone; there is no doorman.