Calm, kewel and collected?

Obviously time has passed since my wife died. It’ll be six years come April.
Yrs Trly locked his keys in his car Thursday in the supermarket parking-lot, inadvertently of course.
It’s a Ford, so has key code buttons on the driver-door. I have that code written somewhere, but it wasn’t in my wallet.
I called AAA on my cellphone. I can do phonecalls from my stone-quiet house, but a supermarket lobby is a surfeit of racket.
“Welcome to AAA.” Machine-city! “Punch 1 to initiate a service-call, 2 to cancel.” Quickly engage dial-pad while holding phone to ear. This is progress?
The deluge of machines began, plus the usual “monitoring for quality assurance.”
Do they allow me to hear anything? Fire up speakerphone, but here in a noisome supermarket lobby I still hafta hold to my ear.
Punch this, key that, on-and-on it went. My iPhone displays the numbers I punched in: I counted seven.
And then there were the stony silences where I couldn’t hear the question. Machines can’t process “Wha-a-a-a?” I made at least two phonecalls starting over.
Finally I got a human. He wanted my account-number. Unholster wallet and rifle through it one-handed on bench while holding iPhone to ear with other hand — trying to not dump everything on floor.
“I can process with just yer name!” amidst the din.
“‘H’ as in ‘Harry,’ ‘U’ as in ‘under,’ ‘G’ as in ‘get,’ ‘H’ as in ‘Harry,’ ‘E’ as in ‘enough,’ ‘S’ as in ‘Sally.”
“Robert?”
“That’s me.”
“And yer address is......”
“Yada-yada-yada-yada.”
“Yer service-tech will arrive in two hours, 24 minutes. You will get text updates.”
“Groovy,” I thought.
Okay, engage guile-and-cunning. Who can I call to avoid that long wait?
I was in the Canandaigua Wegmans supermarket, so I figgered I’d call my doggy daycare, who also is in Canandaigua.
I no longer have a dog, but the owners worked at the Messenger newspaper when I was there.
“Please leave a message.”
“Any chance you guys can help an old geezer that inadvertently locked himself out of his car?”
How about the Ford dealer where I bought the car? They’re right down the street, and might be able to give me the key code.
I called them walking to my car. “Service please.” I got the pretty girl who picked me up at the YMCA a couple weeks ago. My car was in for service.
I wondered if they might have the key code, since I bought the car from them, and I always do service there.
“*****.” “In!” I shouted. “You just saved my butt.”
I thereafter called AAA, held for what seemed eternity, then canceled the service-call.
What’s notable is this madness didn’t phase me a bit. It didn’t prompt the usual angst and exasperation that woulda occurred right after my wife died.
In fact, it didn’t prompt the anger my wife often endured. Which has me wishing I coulda been to my wife what I am now.

• The Messenger newspaper is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger, from where I retired 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern. (I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well). A co-owner of that grooming emporium that daycared my dog was once an editor at the Messenger, and his wife was in ad-sales.
• My previous dog was “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She was thirteen, and was my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish-Setter” is an Irish-Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoided puppydom, but such a dog is often messed up. —Scarlett wasn't bad. She was my fourth rescue.) I had to put her down because she was getting seizures. —She was my longest-lived Irish-Setter; still chasing rabbits at age-13.
• “Wegmans,” is a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.