Sam Venable 

Department of Irony

Unlike the chorus of a popular 1971 song by someone named “Melanie,” I have neither a brand new pair of roller skates nor a brand new key.

I do, however, have old keys. By the multiplied bunches. With such a mass of metal, I’d surely qualify for the Janitorial/Night Watchman Hall of Fame.

I know this for a fact because I just walked in from the garage. There, I gathered 13 individual key rings that were dangling from nails on a shelf support post.

They contained a total of 45 keys. I counted them twice, just to make sure.

In the console of my truck, I found yet another key ring. It held five keys. Plus a single key attached to no ring whatsoever.

That all adds up to the grand sum of 51 keys. Quite a collection.

However, of those 51, I can immediately identify the use of six. Repeat, s-i-x.

These are my go-to guys deployed on a frequent basis for various locks and ignition switches in my pickup, camper-top, my wife’s car, bass boat and trailer hitch. I know each one in an instant. No guesswork necessary.

Of the remaining 45 keys, I suspect eight or nine could be properly ID’d if tested in rarely used locks in my truck, car, boat and around the garage. I didn’t take time to experiment, although these keys do look vaguely familiar upon second glance.

Another two or three, I think, went to old newsroom desks, either at the News Sentinel or maybe even back to my days in Chattanooga (we’re talking nearly 50 years ago).

One ring contained two keys. Somewhere along the line, I had deployed a black marker to identify them as “ST” and “OLD,” respectively.

I know what “OLD” means—the word definition, you understand—but have no idea which ancient lock was involved. Alas, “ST” is a complete mystery, except it appears to be much newer than “OLD.”

The others? Beats the heck out of me. You could put a cocked pistol to my head, give me a 12-count, and I’d still have no clue.

So why keep them?

What?! Are you daft?!

As any hoarder will attest, the correct lock may turn up at any given moment!

How would you feel if this situation occurred and you didn’t have a key to fit it—even if you didn’t know which key it was? Certainly makes sense to me.

I’ll tell you what else makes sense to me: Carrying jingly, jangly, bulging keys is a royal pain in the pocket. That’s why I hang ’em on nails in the garage where they can mature into a state of total uselessness.

But wait. This phobia gets worse.

You know that single, ring-less key I mentioned in the fifth paragraph? It goes to my truck ignition. I always carry it solo. By itself. No chain, no fob, no nothing. It’s easy to find. Never gets lost.

I’m tempted to visit a shrink and see if he might unlock idiocy like this that regularly floats around in my gray cells. Assuming, of course, I could give him the correct key.

Sam Venable is an author, entertainer and columnist for the Knoxville (TN) News Sentinel. He may be reached at sam.venable@outlook.com.