Last night was fun.
Last night I got to cut keys.
I hadn't cut a key in forever, the tiny portable key cutter was a far cry from the machines I grew up around at Papa's shop in Georgia. The sound of the little one just didn't compare with the bigger, older-than-I-am models at his shop. Sure it still kicked up its fair share of brass dust, but it was finer, more dust like than the needle sharp shavings of
Pop's. I'm still sure I might have a shaving or two still lodged deep somewhere in my body
haha maybe it will work it's way out one of these days.
As I was driving today to get ice I thought a lot about that locksmith shop and just how much I loved that place.
I remember the excitement of my first day of being allowed to go to work with Papa. Lying in bed all night waiting for the alarm to go off in all of my 7 year old excitement. I didn't sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, continuously turning over to look at the clock to make sure I didn't miss the alarm. It felt like forever until the Atlanta morning traffic report quietly crackled to life on the ancient clock/radio finally signaling the start of the big day.
It was 5:30am.
Out of bed I flew, already dressed in the mini-uniform Nan had ordered for me; my name embroidered in red on the blue background of the jersey-knit t-shirt with the name of the shop, Security Lock and Safe on the other side. I quickly tucked the little tails of the shirt in and buckled my belt ("No
untucked shirts in my shop! Don't want to look like a bunch of monkeys could do our job!" Papa said. Monkeys were the basis of intelligence at the shop. Richard liked to joke that the combined IQ went through the roof when I walked into the shop, this was after he started acknowledging my existence, which came about 3 years after he started working there. I used to enjoy pulling the seniority card on him, because I had been working there longer than he had.)
It was cold when Papa and I walked to the van. The ancient grey
behemoth roared to life as Pop started it. We called it the "Stealth" van. Since it was the exact make and model of most vans seen creeping up on unsuspecting victims in terrorist movies. One time we had to go on a call to re-key a couple of trailers at a church and as we sat in the van the wind was blowing so hard it rocked the entire thing. The stuff precariously stacked on racks jingled and clinked threateningly.
The shop was huge to a 7 year old, not so much now to a 19 year old but still filled with all sorts of interesting things. The wall in the "showroom" of the shop, just behind the counter was filled from top to bottom with all different keys, mostly foreign keys for window locks, some doors, and a lot of auto keys. Under the counter was lined with buckets of the most common keys; Schlage, Kwikset, and the like, almost all of them for doors. There was a small section, though, for cylindar keys for padlocks and such; I never got to see many of those cut but the few times I did I thought it was pretty cool.
There was something about the smell of that place, of dust not quite settled and a musky taint to the air only years of hard labor and grime will make. Walking around in that place with anything less than steel-toed boots on your feet was unthinkable, your feet would become pincushions, filled with all sorts of metal shavings. Beside the bench in the back was a huge bucket that we filled with the odd pins that got lost, then found, or dropped and the size forgotten or the shavings from the machines and all sorts of odds and ends. Once the bucket is full Papa Joe would take it to some magical place to sell it and give the money to his grandkids.
The kitchenette in the back was nothing short of terrifying. Actually, it still is. Sometimes I wonder about the sanitary conditions of that little backroom with its ancient microwave that probably will be the cause of some form of cancer I probably will contract. I don't even want to go into the sandwich toaster thingy that once took up residence there. Scary, scary stuff. In all the 12 years I have been going to that shop there is still one place I have never set foot... and that is the back bathroom/broom closet. I don't know what it is about it, but it's scared me enough to the point that I would leave the trashbag at the end of the night in front of its door and quietly ask Papa to get the trash from that one bathroom.
I have no immediate plans of ever visiting that one room.
The bench in the back was the only place I was allowed to be for the longest time. I was not to come to the front of the store while costumers were in the shop, "That's because I don't want a lot of my costumers knowing that a 8 year old is re-keying the entrance to their homes," Papa explained laughing the unique, wheezy, breathy laugh of his, one of the best sounds in the world. The finsihe daily crossword lays on top of another ancient radio that rasps out Rush Limbaugh throughout the work day ("The only radio show worth listening to and very educational. As long as you are here you might as well be learning something so just listen to him." Oddly enough, even Rush's voice brings a sense of comfort because of all those days of listening to him at the shop, even though I had no idea what he ever talks about...).
The Coke machine, since removed from the shop to my dismay, was also a monument visited often to reap the bounties of Sprite and YooHoo. You had to shove the quarters in *just right* to get them in all the way. I still shove my coins in machines the same way I shoved them into that ancient machine.
The "Oval Office" was Nanny's domain. Apparently the comment I made one day about everything in Nan's office being oval just like the President's stuck (it was true, she had an oval pencil holder and clock and other little knick knacks of the same shape) and Papa and Richard also dubbed her van "Air Force One" and when she was seen soaring into the parking lot we would warn each other, "The Eagle has landed!" which, of course, was code for, "Quick! Hide the donuts and look like we have a full brain between us!"
Driving home in the evening after a long day I still find myself turning on Paul Simon (You Can Call Me Al or Boy in the Bubble or Graceland) or the Eagles (Hotel California... I mean seriously, did they even make any other songs?!), and thinking about all the days and long nights spent working at that small shop in Marietta. Whether re-keying door knobs or helping hold of foot after foot of receipt paper from the week while we calculated our gains or losses.
And at the end of every night Papa would go to the cash register and take out $8 and hand it to me for a hard day's work. He taught me the value of a dollar and how satisfying it is to know that you worked hard for it (it was quite a shock to my system when I learned that most starting wages are $6+ and not the $1/hr I was used to!)
I miss that place. I can't wait until I can go there again.
This, my friends, is my new passion.
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