On a recent trip to North Carolina, I locked us out of our van — in Pennsylvania, while it was running — outside a coffee shop, at 6:30 a.m.

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Snackflation

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Up bright and early, we wanted to grab snacks and coffee and hit the dusty trail. Kris found me in a silent standoff with the $4.18 price tag on a bag of Goldfish crackers.

“What’s wrong?” Kris said.

“$4.18 for Goldfish crackers?” I said.

“Get them,” he said. “They’ll be $5 soon. Why don’t you check out and gimme the key?”

“Umm, I don’t have the key.”

That little $4.18 sticker was a life lesson in perceived fairness — a lesson Billie Eilish, in her own blunt way, shared at the Wall Street Journal’s Innovators Award. After receiving her award, Billie deadpanned the audience: “If you’re a billionaire, why are you a billionaire? No hate, but, yeah, give your money away.” And for the record, I’m all for everyone enjoying abundance and success — just as long as it doesn’t come at the expense of everyone else.

But it is an expense. Shoppers care a lot about whether a price feels “fair,” which is why shrinkflation — AKA “now with 30% more air” — is another con job. Then there are the tiny price bumps, and we question ourselves: Didn’t this cost $2 yesterday? Add sticky prices that never go back down, and suddenly a simple grocery trip requires the forensic skills of a CSI unit. We’re suffering 47 tiny emotional breakdowns because everything seems designed to nickel-and-dime us into submission.

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Back to business

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Back in the parking lot, I dealt with my other lockout. I called roadside assistance while Kris grabbed our coffee. After navigating the phone menu maze, I endured nine minutes of Kenny Rogers reminding me, “there’s a secret to survival.”

Meanwhile, Kris called the state police, local police and the fire department — no dice. Penn State campus police echoed the believable yet maddening line: “We can’t help. Liability.” Our van continued to purr out carbon dioxide, shrinking ice floes for penguins and polar bears everywhere.

I called the closest mechanic, Tony. “Hang on for the estimate.”

I pictured Tony calculating the most reasonable fee for unlocking a 2006 van on his smartphone. Twelve minutes later, I pictured him with his shoes and socks off, using tally sticks and an abacus. “That’ll be $289.”

“I am 1.2 miles away. I don’t need a tow — I’m locked out.”

“Yup. That’s the unlocking fee.”

“Seriously? It’ll take you 30 seconds.”

“Listen, lady, that’s what we get around here. It’s not personal, just business.”

“Oh, Tony,” I said. “Don’t throw Godfather lines at me before breakfast. You gouging me is personal.”

It wasn’t $289 — I would’ve paid it if I had to. What does everyone else do when roadside assistance ghosts them, they’re racing an eight-hour drive with a seven-hour deadline, and they don’t have a fly swatter?

I called insurance three more times and got disconnected three more times. My parents sent their AAA number, and I spent 45 minutes being transferred among six AAA agents who all rerouted me to Albany because I was “from New York.” Finally, I reached lucky agent number seven, Ronaldo.

“You have a New York area code so I’ll transfer–”

“No! Wait! I am not in New York. My vehicle has wheels, and we drove it to Pennsylvania.” Pause.

“Am I speaking with Jerry Cheney?” There I stood, squarely between truth and lie. He was speaking to half of Jerry Cheney’s DNA after all, and then I pictured Sister Brian Marie and said, “No — that’s my father.”

“Sorry. If you’re not the cardholder, I can’t send assistance.”

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Take two

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With time and fuel running low, we returned to our family problem-solving mantra: What can we do with what we already have? Kris cracked open the tiny vent window four feet behind the front door, just wide enough for my arm, and I grabbed a fly swatter. A wire hanger from a helpful hotel groundskeeper, a long stick from a lawn across the road and a hefty rock later, we engineered a $289 tool. A few kindred DIYers walked by, wishing us good luck.

Kris fed Key Fob 2.0 through the window, and we began a five-minute game of Van-Life-Whac-A-Mole with me directing: “Back two inches!” and “Left — no, right!” as he smacked the door panel with the suspended rock. Then — CLICK! Unlocked! We erupted into a feral victory celebration while the coffee shop patrons looked on in bewildered concern.

Most of us know what it feels like to be locked out: of fair prices, of simple services, of systems that are supposed to help. Billie Eilish called out billionaires, but it isn’t only the 1% that take more than they need. There is so much we cannot control — like shrinkflation or Tony’s “just business” philosophy — but we take back our power when we get creative and improvise.

If the world won’t unlock the door for you, try the window.