“Open the gate, else I will complain to the Security in Charge Agency.” I’ve said some version of this in my head more times than I’d like to admit. Not out loud, usually. But in that moment—when you’re stuck outside your own building—your mind suddenly becomes a full-time drama writer.
It’s funny how a simple gate can feel like a national border when you’re on the wrong side of it. This isn’t the Strait of Hormuz, obviously. But when the guard doesn’t open up, the outcome is the same for you: you can’t get in. Your car is there, your home is there, your parking spot is there… and still you’re locked out like you don’t belong.
And it always happens at the worst time. You pull up and realize the watchman isn’t at his post. Maybe he’s running an errand. Maybe he’s in the washroom. Maybe he stepped away for a perfectly human reason. But your brain doesn’t start with “human reason.” Your brain starts with: people are behind me, someone is honking, someone wants to squeeze past, and now I’m the obstacle in everybody’s day.
That’s when the thoughts get ugly. You start imagining extreme solutions to a small problem. You go from “Where is he?” to “Should I call his supervisor?” to “Should I throw him out?” in about ten seconds. It’s ridiculous, but it’s real. Frustration does that—it makes the situation feel personal, even when it isn’t.
Then comes the next move: ask the neighboring watchman. Surely someone has seen him. So you look across, wave, ask around, try to crowdsource your way into your own building. But the neighboring watchman can’t spot him either. Now you’re both staring at the same empty space like it’s going to produce a person if you look hard enough. And to make it worse, nobody is particularly helpful. Not because they’re bad people, but because it’s not their problem… yet.
So you try diplomacy. You call the watchman’s mobile phone. This feels like the mature thing to do: establish communication, solve it calmly, keep the peace. The phone rings. You can almost hear it—ringing on a table somewhere—while the man himself is nowhere to be found. The phone is present. The gatekeeper is not.
Now you’re stuck with the one tool you didn’t want to use: the horn. Honking feels rude. It disturbs residents. It announces your frustration to the whole building. It turns a private inconvenience into public noise. So you hesitate. You wait. You give him time. You try to be the “good resident.”
But after a few minutes, you tell yourself, “Maybe that’s the best course of action.” You honk once, then a few times. Still nothing. The silence after the horn is its own kind of insult. It makes you feel ignored, even if nobody is ignoring you on purpose.
And then, suddenly—like magic—he appears. Out of nowhere, perfectly calm, as if you haven’t been sitting there boiling. He opens the gate. You drive in. Instantly, the world becomes peaceful again. Outside was chaos. Inside is order. Same building, same day, completely different emotional weather.
You park the car and go up, trying to act normal. But your blood pressure has already done its little dance. The honking was you “taking it out,” not because you enjoy noise, but because you ran out of options. And yes, all kinds of thoughts passed through your mind, including thoughts you’re not proud of.
Then reality catches up: he’s just a gatekeeper. He’s paid a salary. He does what he’s been told. And he’s also a human being with calls of nature and daily needs that don’t always match the rhythm of your travel schedule. The gate looks like a simple system, but the control sits with someone low in the food chain—someone who can accidentally ruin your mood in minutes.
That’s the uncomfortable lesson in all this. We treat “open gate” like a basic command, like pressing a button. But when the process depends on a person, the process also depends on their body, their timing, their attention, their fatigue, and their working conditions. And in that small gap between what we expect and what happens, our entitlement shows up fast.
Next time I’m stuck at the gate, I want to remember this: the gate isn’t the problem. My reaction is. The guard may be late, but he isn’t my enemy. He’s not the reason my life is hard. He’s just the person holding a key for a moment—and I’m the person letting that moment decide my peace.
Read about cost to Company
Maybe I should send him a thank you card?
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