During that sticky summer, boiling away in my chicken coop of an apartment, I spend some time assessing my situation and realize it’s not exactly dire. Despite its many drawbacks, my apartment has a tactically valuable view that doesn’t fail to impress. I live on the fifth floor. The elevator is permanently out of order, but that just helps me keep in shape. Once we rip out the carpet, the ashtray smell finally goes away. I eventually get used to the heat.

In an attempt to cool down, I discover that I can hang out on the roof of the apartment. The door to get up there is locked, but I try picking the lock with a credit card, just like in the movies. Amazingly, it works.

I practise on the bathroom door, which has a similar mechanism. I try a range of different cards: credit cards, loyalty cards, hospital cards, licences, ATM cards, health insurance — even my library card. I also give my cousin’s business card a shot. She made it when she opened a catering business for kids’ birthday parties, before she began popping out her own brood and scuttled the venture. The card stock isn’t stiff enough. I cut out a rectangle from a plastic pop bottle, a trick I picked up online. I use the two litres of pop to clean the toilet, another pearl of internet wisdom. No wonder our poutines are so easy to digest when we wash them down with such a corrosive liquid. The plastic rectangle works, but the technique lacks finesse. And I lose my deposit. I’m also a firm believer in always using tools designed for another purpose, which helps conceal their secondary usage. A curious person might ask questions about the contents of my recycling bin.

The gift card from the chain bookstore appears to be the best option. This Christmas gift from my uncle paid for a volume on survivalism. The ideal combination of flexibility and stiffness. I demagnetize it with fridge magnets, in case I drop it on the other side of the door without succeeding in opening it.

Even if it’s against building rules, anyone who sees you heading onto the roof with a guitar case tends to give you the benefit of the doubt. It’s a charmingly rebellious, even romantic act. But that’s no reason to let myself get caught. The guitar case is an excuse. A security measure. When people think they know what you’re up to, they stop asking questions.

What you need is an item — like my guitar case —that repels people just enough to make them look away so they don’t notice where you’re going. A little sleight of hand to occupy their minds.