The Walk-in Lock-in

From July-October 2009, Colchester Farm on the Eastern Shore of Maryland was my home. I seeded and weeded, harvested and washed, marketed and sold a rainbow of organic vegetables. Sure there were many romantic moments (e.g. picturesque skys, jumbo neon caterpillars, and cruising in our battered little red farm truck), though inevitably, there were a handful of mishaps, too. Here's a tale of one particular "opps" while down on the farm...

The Walk-in Lock-in

As a boob tube transfixed ten-year-old in the early 90’s, I loved the classic I Love Lucy re-runs. Lounging in the den’s TV-watching throne, an overstuffed wingback with a faded paisley upholstery, I would vicariously live through Lucy’s silly predicaments, often times laughing till it hurt. Nearly two decades later, I found myself vividly recalling the episode “The Freezer”, in which Lucy gets stuck in a meat locker and sprouts a madcap wig of icicles. This particular episode came to mind because I was – ironically enough – locked in a walk-in refrigerator. However, I was not laughing. Alarmed and befuddled, I flashed back to my first day of work as a seasonal intern on the farm, a Community Supported Agriculture vegetable operation on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. I had been given a tour of the facilities, ranging from the rustic chicken coup, to the vegetable washing station, to the farm’s walk-in refrigerator. It was when viewing the latter that had I unwittingly exclaimed, “Sheesh, these things unnerve me. I’ve always had a fear of getting locked-in, just like that one I Love Lucy episode.”

Merely wanting to sneak in and snag a few squash and salad greens for a Saturday night dinner, I began to question whether or not I was going to ever have a warm meal again. It was the weekend after all, and the likelihood of a farm colleague coming to the walk-in for vegetables – only to find a frigid vegetated me – was slim, very slim.

I challenged the apparently broken door knob with chaotic twists, pulls and shoves. A slew of curse words discharged, followed by a shrieking scream that encapsulated every sound bite and bit of energy within my frightened body. Yet, the sound of the scream, reverberating within the tiny metal room, simply frightened me more. With heartbreak and an escalating headache, I accepted that profanities and screams would not lead to any great escape.

So I pounded. The walk-in was connected by a breeze-way to the farm house, and if anyone was home, then maybe, just maybe they would hear me. For what seemed like forever, I threw my fists upon the door with a bang-ba-bang-ba-bang alternated with a bang-bang-ba-bang-bang. Keeping an unsynchronized rhythm would more likely capture someone’s attention, I thought. Though, my fists soon became sore and my biceps fatigued, and there was a steady decrescendo in my bang-ba-bangs. Pounding was not to be my ticket out either.

I slumped down between a bushel of soy beans and box of mushrooms. I look hopelessly around the 10x6 foot room for a crow bar, an axe, something large, hard or sharp that I could crush into the door. But cucumbers, carrots and lettuce mix lined the shelves. How would MacGyver make a grenade with a green bean, I wondered?

At least ten minutes had passed since the door had latched. I was chilled with Goosebumps, and I was beginning to think of the fridge as my tomb. I felt another scream brewing and tears upwelling, and I told myself to just chill-out (figuratively of course). I drew upon my minimal training of Chi Gong, of deep breathing and meditation. However, within seconds it occurred to me that such peacefulness was not getting me out any quicker.

But what about kicking? I rallied all my strength and desperation into the sole of my sandaled foot and walloped the steel door with mighty thumps and umps. I am not sure how long I karate kicked, however lucky for me it was long and noisy enough.

“You SAVED me!”I blurted as I tumbled out of the refrigerator into the arms of Farmer John, my savior donning a straw hat. Stunned, he looked at me, looked in the walk-in, jiggled the door knob, and in a composed manner said the obvious, “Huh – look here. The door knob is broke.” All shivers and shakes my blue lips stuttered a disheartened, “Yeah. I know John, I know that now.”

Sure I was overcome with relief at being rescued, but something seemed wrong, disappointing really. The inner-child in me, the one cushioned in the comfy chair and glued to the boob tube, was crying out for a more melodramatic liberation. Perhaps a hysterical Ethel hustling Ricky to my aid would have sufficed, with him ultimately and affectionately proclaiming in his accented English, “Lucy, you have some ‘splaining to do!”