A scant block later, I learned what the trouble was upon reaching into my pockets and failing to produce keys—a discovery which, most likely, meant they were still hanging from the lock of my door at home. Which meant taking the #2 bus downtown, then catching the 26 home. The latter bus had, of course, left five minutes prior to my arrival, so I substituted the 16 and walked the difference (a decision which proved to be futile as I watched the 26 pull up to my doorstep at least thirty seconds before I reached it myself). And there they hung, in all their dangling, neglected glory, waiting for me to travel across the city to retrieve them. After that, it was another 26 downtown, then another 2 to the office. And there went my morning, up in a puff of unproductive smoke.
Of course, I blame Dan Savage. Go away, Dan Savage. Go away.