So on Saturday I was taking out the trash. It's not usually such a major event really. But this day was going to be something special, although I didn't know it at the time.

I carefully carried the trash down to the front of the building and while balancing the bag in one hand, popped the lock on the rubbish bin lid. Yes, we have a lock on it because it is out in the street and there is much foot traffic in our area. To keep people from stealing the bins they're also chained to a fence. A fence that keeps people from walking or driving into the stoka, or stream in English. Remember, I live in Ceske Budejovice, Ceska Republika.

So as I was balancing the trash bag in one hand and popping the lock with the other I thought myself quite dexterous. I lifted the lock out of the loop in the lid and pulled the top open so that I could deposit the trash inside. All was well and good until I heard the low sound of metal on metal and realized the lock had slipped out of my hand, across the angled lid and, the plunk sound was the key here, into the stoka.

"Well, Shit," I muttered aloud as I leaned over the rubbish bin and the fence looking at the ripples dissipate. But not having any time to think about then I carried on because I had to be at the school to teach in a matter of minutes. I knew something would need to be done about it but I hadn't any options at that moment.

Sunday rolled around and I was standing on the balcony having a cigarette when my mobile rang.

"Hello Chris, it is Tomaš." That's the building owner. I instantly knew what this was about and even as he asked the question I was still weighing what to say in my mind... Do I lie over something so trivial and stupid?

No, of course not.

"It's a terrible story Tomaš," I started, "on Saturday I was taking the trash out and while holding the lid open the lock slid into the stoka." He didn't seem phased by this all and I suspected it wasn't the first time such a thing had occurred.

"Well the problem is lock must have six keys."

"Yes I understand, I have to decide how to get that." I am pretty certain he thought I meant the lock and the six keys.
I am also pretty certain I meant the lock resting at the bottom of the stoka.

Now the stoka isn't that deep but it's in a ditch surrounded by only slightly angled brick walls. Neither imposing or easily accessible but somewhere in the middle.

Yesterday, while smoking a cigarette, again on the balcony, I pondered my options. I studied the approach to the stoka, a fence and wall for a total of eight or nine feet on one side, the park, sloping hill and potentially treacherous entrance from the other side. But I hadn't made any decision on it.

Today I decided there was nothing to be done. I didn't really want to venture to a store and try to explain in my broken Czech that I needed a lock and six copies of the key. Though in hindsight it was probably easier than my mind had made it out to be. But I decided I would venture forth into the murky depths of the stoka.

Let's talk about the word stoka for a minute. While one might call it a stream or a brook it had another meaning long ago. In this case it's called Mlynska Stoka, or the Mill Stream. Rather a nice name really, and I often sit and watch the ducks and the fish in it. But stoka, originally, meant something akin to a sewer. But it really looks quite nice from four stories above. After months of observing it I thought I had a good grasp on its real nature. I was mistaken.

So this morning it was rather cold, cars were graced with the breath of Jack Frost himself and I was rather surprised when I went to teach. But my course of action was plain, I had to go to the stoka. Yes it would be cold, and probably somewhat unpleasant, but it had to be done.

So around eight-thirty tonight I poked my head out to check the status of the people in the area. "No," I thought to myself, "too many lights, too many people, later." So I went back to doing what I was doing. Around nine-thirty I looked again, yes the coast was clear so to speak. No one milling about the Mill Stream, no one lounging about in the park, it was perfect.

So I made my way down to the stream in sandals and rolled up jeans. I thought it couldn't be more than a foot deep from the looks of it so I rolled my pants to nearly my knees just to be sure. I surveyed the eight or nine feet from my side of the stream and thought that I should enter from the other side because it was less dangerous and I didn't really need to fall head first into a foot of quite cold water. So I made my way to the bridge and into the park. I clambered down the small slope to the edge and peered into the water. It sure looked darker than I had hoped. Damn, I forgot the flashlight too. Well I'm this far, I might as well take the plunge so to speak. I spun about and lowered myself down the five foot wall on the park side. FIVE FEET! I thought, it was supposed to be four...

Then my feet hit the near-ice cold water and I knew this was a bad idea. But it was too late now. I lowered myself in and found that it was indeed about a foot or a foot and a half deep. Being quite pleased with myself I didn't bother to hike up my pants fully to my knees. Stupid of me really because as I began to make my way across the six or seven feet of the stoka I realized, too late, it was nearly twice as deep as my estimate when I sunk in the muck to halfway up my calves. But I was a force of nature, the immovable boulder standing in the waters of time. I would not be stayed from my goal, I would not accept defeat nor anything short of that blasted, shiny golden lock...my precious.

Several people walked past as I slowly and silently like a Navy SEAL stalking his prey, made my way to where I believed the lock to be. "Shit, I'm wearing long sleeves." Yes, it was an ill-conceived plan overall. I quickly hiked up my sleeves, judged the angle and distance of where the lock had fallen and plunged my arms to the elbow and into the slimy, gooey bottom of the stoka. The lock was no where to be found. So I again looked up to the rubbish bin and adjusted my position.

Moments later my hand fell upon a muck covered something hard, I hoped with all my willpower it was the lock and not something worse.

As I raised my hand out of the water the first rays of the sodium bulbs landed on the golden body of my precious. The lock was mine!

I scurried through the murky uneven bed of the stoka and carefully placed my prize on the top of the wall, being sure not to drop it back in the water as I pulled myself out of the water. To my surprise my legs had already gone numb from the water though I hadn't been in it but two minutes.

So after hand-washing the jeans because I haven't a wash machine and scrubbing the muck from the sandals and then a long hot shower all is finally well in my world. Just in case, I thought I'd have a nice cup of tea, the anti-oxidants can't hurt since I've just been wading in the frigid murky depths of The Stoka.

The moral of the story? Hell if I know. Never judge a stoka by the amount of fish you see? Two locks are better than one?

How about this one:

Don't try to juggle too many things at once because someone might end up in muddy water...most likely it will be you.