“Someone Kept Leaving Toothpicks in My Door Lock — I Didn’t Call the Cops, I Got Even”
I Kept Coming Home to a Toothpick in the Lock—Instead of Calling the Police, I Took Revenge on My Own Terms
One evening after work, I discovered a toothpick stuck in my lock. Then it occurred once again. Imagine me carrying tweezers like a crazy locksmith outside my own home. I choose not to report it. I set up a trap since I had a better game for anyone who wants to play strange small games.
I hauled my scrub-clad, caffeine-drained body home after 14 hours of bedpans, vomit, and a guy who claimed his “friend” was the one who “accidentally” sat on a remote control. I just wanted glorious silence, a hot shower, and half a frozen pizza.
Instead, my key wouldn’t go in, so I was standing in thirty-degree weather, staring at my front door as if it had just slapped me.
I gave it another go. Nothing. It wiggled. Not at all. Because keys can be cranky at times, I turned it upside down. Still, nothing was effective.
“Come on,” I whispered, jiggling more vigorously. “I’ve had patients at the ER less difficult than you today.”
I saw a tiny object stuck deep in the keyhole at that point. In order to see better, I squinted and used the torch on my phone.
A toothpick was stuck in the lock.
I complained as I futilely poked at it with my car key. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. I tried using a bobby pin to prod it out, jiggled, and cursed. Nothing was successful.
I remained standing there with cold toes and a vibrant language that would make my patients blush fifteen minutes later.
I called my brother after giving up.
“Danny? It’s me. “I’m locked out.”
“Once more? At the hospital, did you misplace your keys? Since the last time—”
“No, there’s a toothpick stuck in my lock.”
“What the devil? I’ll come over right away.”
Danny’s old pickup pulled into my driveway ten minutes later. Wearing sweats and a T-shirt that said, “I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE,” he hopped out.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a coat?”
“Shouldn’t you be inside your house?” He retaliated, wielding a little toolkit as if he were about to disarm a bomb.
His breath formed tiny clouds in the chilly air as I watched him inspect the lock.
“Yes! He pulled a pair of tweezers from his kit and stated, “There’s a toothpick in there.” “And it didn’t get there by accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone put it there… on purpose.” After a few minutes of working in silence, he triumphantly held out a small wooden splinter. “There we have it. Give it a try right now.
I let out a sigh of relief when the key fit in nicely.
“You think it was just kids?” With hope, I asked.
Danny gave a headshake. “This level of patience is not present in children. Please give me a call if it occurs again.
“It won’t!” With confidence, I said.
He called over his shoulder, “Famous last words,” as he made his way back to his truck.
Indeed! It took place once more. Twenty-four hours later, exactly.
Danny said, “You’re kidding me,” when I FaceTimed him. In the background, I could hear beer bottles clinking.
“Perhaps the homeowners’ association has a really devoted adversary of mine? In February, I did install the Christmas lights.
Danny arrived with a somewhat offended expression towards the cosmos. He brushed passed me and said, “Okay, now I’m interested.”
“This is a targeted attack. Do you want to capture them?
“With what? “A mousetrap?” I rolled my eyes as I spoke.
“It’s better. A security camera is in my possession. I used it to capture the raccoons that were repeatedly toppling my trash cans. I’ll arrange it for tomorrow.
Danny showed in the following morning with a camera that appeared to have withstood a fall from a cliff and multiple wars.
“This thing still works?” I questioned doubtfully.
“It works, of course. It’s constructed similarly to a Nokia phone. For someone whose exercise routine mostly consisted of walking to the refrigerator, he climbed the maple tree in my front yard with unexpected quickness.
“Perfect angle. Anyone approaching your door will be captured on camera, and the video will be sent directly to your phone.
I sat in my car that night, stooped over my phone like a teenager anticipating a text from their crush. I heard my phone vibrate at 7:14 p.m.
When I saw the footage from one of the new videos that appeared, my stomach turned over.
“JOSH??”
Yes! My former partner. While working double shifts at the hospital, I had discovered that he was texting his “work friend” Amber late at night. The one who, for months, I had been pleading with him to accompany me to restaurants, had been “working late” at the office while his credit card was busy purchasing dinner for two.
Unbelieving what I was seeing, I viewed the video three times. There he was, wearing his dumb puffy jacket, poking a toothpick into my lock with the dexterity of a microsurgeon.
“What the hell?” I let out a gasp.
He and I had split up six months prior. There was no yelling or dramatic scene—just a calm discussion in which I presented the information and turned to leave. I believed that we had separated amicably. Apparently not.
I was furious. I didn’t contact the police, though. I gave Connor a call.
Then he barked, “He did what?”
Connor, who is six feet four, has tattoos and makes poor choices that always end well. He looks like he could bench-press a small vehicle, rides a motorbike that sounds like a dragon with indigestion, and works with my brother in a custom auto shop.
Five years ago, we dated for roughly three weeks before determining that we were better friends than lovers. However, during especially lonely holidays or wedding parties, the term “friend” often became hazy.
He inserted a toothpick into my hair. Using my porch light to brighten the paused footage of Josh’s face, I repeated, “Twice.”
“It’s… imaginative. Do you want me to speak with him?
“Do you mean to ‘speak,’ as in to threaten him with physical harm? since I won’t be releasing you from prison once more.”
“Reggie, that was only once. Furthermore, I didn’t really hit anyone.
“You threw a man’s toupee into a fountain.”
“I was attacked initially. However, I have another idea. Does Josh still occasionally drive by your house?
“Probably. He lives three blocks away.
“Excellent. This is our plan of action.
I pretended to be leaving my residence at 6:45 p.m. the following evening. As I made my way to my car, I even made a loud phone call to someone: “Yeah, I’ll be there in twenty minutes! “Save me a seat!”
I snuck back through my neighbor’s yard, parked around the corner and went in through my back door. Already inside, Connor was beaming like a child on Christmas morning.
“Wait… Is that my bathrobe?” Looking at the pink abomination that scarcely covered his chest, let alone anything else, I asked.
“Yes. I hope this works because I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Connor!”
“I certainly am. Your creepy ex should be here any moment now, shh.
The exact time my phone buzzed was 7:11 p.m. Josh was tiptoeing up my front walk with a toothpick in his hand, which looked like a tiny wooden knife, when I turned up the video feed.
Reaching into his toolbox, Connor took out a wrench and stood by the entrance.
“Wait for it,” he said to himself.
With a toothpick in hand, Josh reached for the lock, and Connor threw the door open.
Through the gap in the curtains, I could see Josh’s expression change from one of intense concentration to one of complete dread.
“You must be the toothpick fairy!” Connor stated as he entered the porch. When the bathrobe opened, a much more tattooed torso was visible than would be permitted in a PG-13 film. “Got a message for you from the lady of the house, pal.”
Josh’s mouth was like a fish out of water, opening and closing. Then, his arms pumping as if he were trying to qualify for the Olympics, he turned and ran—a full sprint down the driveway.
After Connor, I rushed out the door. “JOSH! “Stop!”
He really did, miracle of miracles. With his hands lifted as if I were aiming a rifle rather than merely my finger, he whirled around, looking as pale as a ghost.
“Why? Why tamper with my lock?
“I simply… I hoped you would call me for assistance. You would need someone if you couldn’t get in, and I would be there. After that, perhaps we could speak and—”
“So you sabotaged my lock… to play hero?”
“It sounds dumb when you say it like that, Reggie.”
“That’s because IT IS dumb!” Connor spoke out.
Josh appeared to have been deflated. “Alright, I made a mistake. I reasoned that you would recollect the nice days if I could simply assist you once more.
“The good times?” I chuckled. “You mean before or after you were taking Amber to Vincenzo’s while telling me you were seeing a therapist?”
“It was an error. For months, I have been attempting to convey it to you.
“Yeah, well,” Connor remarked, unduly showing off, “mission failed, buddy.” Before I contact the police, get out.”
Josh’s shoulders stooped like a reprimanded child as he turned and slunk off into the night.
Connor smiled as he shut the door behind us. “That was fun.”
I wasn’t finished, though.
“What are you doing?” The following morning, Connor looked over my shoulder at my phone and enquired.
I said, “Creating a TikTok account,” and then I uploaded the video.
“Savage! Reggie, I had no idea you had it in you.
With a caption that said, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I responded, “My ex continues using toothpicks to jam my door lock. When we presented him to my new man, this is what transpired.
“🤣😈”
“New man, huh?” Connor’s eyebrow went up.
“Artistic license,” I muttered as I pressed the submit button. “For dramatic effect.”
After two days, the video had received 2.1 million views and was still growing. Josh emailed me incoherently about privacy and how I had destroyed his life. I didn’t answer.
Rather, I sent the film to his boss, who was also Amber’s father. As it happens, Amber was also unaware of me. When Josh abruptly started “pursuing other opportunities” as stated on the company website, the narrative rapidly thinned out once more.
Danny helped me change my hair two weeks later, not because I had to but because it felt like a symbolic way to end a chapter in my life.
As he tightened the last screw, he remarked, “You know, you could have just called the police.”
“And miss all this?” I made a hazy motion towards the turmoil of the previous week. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Coke and pizza were brought over by Connor that afternoon to commemorate what he dubbed “The Great Toothpick Revenge.”
“To small victories,” he remarked as he pressed his can to mine.
“And to idiots who think tampering with locks is a good flirting strategy!” I added.
Leaning back on my couch, Connor remarked, “You know, I’m still waiting for my share of the TikTok fame.”
“How about I keep the fact that you wore my bathrobe a secret? That’s sufficient payment.
He smiled. “Deal!”
There was another notice buzzing on my phone. Three million people had just viewed the video.
It turns out that sometimes a toothpick and a viral post are just as effective as a sledgehammer when it comes to getting revenge.
