Gate-keeping

 As I returned up our stretch of sidewalk one morning, I saw a youngish man climbing out of a small truck with some sort of frames in the back.  He walked several yards ahead of me, turned up the path to our main entrance, and, instead of tapping a code into the enter-com, or getting out a key, peered in through the glass.

We have signs all over the building, warning about letting in people we don't know, so I decided to side-step any awkwardness, and turned on my heel to enter by the parking lot door.  As I got my key out, I heard a voice.  It was the fella, who had clearly followed me.

I don't think most men have the first idea of how creepy this is.

He was doing painting in the storage area, he explained, and had left his key behind. The people who had hired him were out.

Now, this was exactly the awkwardness I'd been hoping to avoid.  An unfamiliar guy asking me to let him in, on trust.

I told him I'd call a Strata Council member, and as I walked back through the parking lot, I heard him say, with barely concealed exasperation:  "I'm locked out."

"I understand that," I told him resolutely, without turning.

I decided to call the Resident Fan Boy, who happened to be home.

"Please come to the front door," I said, omitting any explanation, so he wouldn't dither. As he appeared, I stepped in past him, saying quietly, "This guy says he's locked out.  I don't know him."

The RFB, being a Strata Council member, knew that there was work being done in the storage rooms, and let him in promptly.  I hated being put on the spot, but he assured me I'd done the right thing.  The guy in the truck didn't agree, but he didn't know about the guy who got in.

That particular morning, I was late, and left by the front way to go over to Demeter's to set up her breakfast.  A lady from the fourth floor of our building, who regularly takes her elderly dachshund out for a push in a sort of enclosed wheeled stroller, was standing at the open door, talking to a man in a baseball cap.  As I passed, I thought I heard him saying something about 306 or 302, and my belly gave an uneasy lurch - I sensed my neighbour's hesitation, but I was in a hurry, dammit.

Later, I learned he'd come in, and gone into an unlocked suite just down the hall from us.  He encountered the Council President and his excitable dog; the former unceremoniously escorted him off the premises.  I thought, with some relief, about how I'd carefully locked our door as I left - younger daughter was alone in her bedroom and the RFB at a meeting.

That other guy in the truck evidently thought I could tell he was trustworthy just by looking at him.  Guys seem to think this sort of thing; I suppose some women do, too.  They're not thinking things through.