to each other. “They said at the lumberyard that they don’t make the old kind of back set for atrium doors anymore, but you might have one, or be able to tell me what I have to do to fix the door.” Mr. Bennet said, “I don’t have any of those. Can’t help you. Sorry. You might shave the hole where the handles go. Shave it back and dig out where the back set goes. That might work, or you might ruin the door. Anyway, that’s it.” And with that, Mr. Bennet was off, his head and shoulders towering over most of the young thespians as he charged away from Matt and all things having to do with locksmith-ery. Matt shook his head. Time to give up. He’d get Noonie’s money back for her. She’d simply have to get a carpenter. There was no way that he was going to destroy the door trying to jerry-rig something that wasn’t made for the thing. The drive back to the lumberyard wasn’t as hurried. Matt was done with this project. If their door had been like most, it would have been easy. Some good marijuana would have eased the sting of failure, but that was alright. It was okay to feel beaten. He’d deal with it in an acceptable way, making the kinds of choices that he’d been taught to make growing up. Take the high road. The meek shall inherit the earth. Do unto others. All that. That was how to get over something. His heart rate slowed as he came to the lumberyard. The clerk leaned into the counter when he saw Matt sauntering up the main aisle. When he got there, Matt plopped down both of the sacks, the one holding the old broken latch in one and the new kit to be returned in the other. “Mr. Bennet couldn’t help me,” Matt admitted. “He said something about chiseling the wood for the back set and the hole where the latches are supposed to fit. I just want to return it and get a refund.”
208