Odd Things Not to Forget, #1
When I was in college, the first off-campus housing we rented was this miserably disgusting two story house. It was amazing and perfect for us at the time. There were eleven of us. The top floor housed six lovely young ladies, the bottom floor five of us disgusting young men. Upon successful execution of our lease, our first task was to get the locks changed. Our landlord, New Brunswick’s Joe Chedid, a middle aged Lebanese man who as far as we could tell was both the Beer Baron and head slumlord of New Brunswick (I say slumlord in the nicest way possible, he really did hook us up) sent us to a locksmith on Easton Ave.
This locksmith. Wow. It was like stepping back in time. The poor man working there must have been at least 92 years old – without hyperbole. The shop itself was in worse shape than our newly signed house. Natural light had not graced the walls of that place in at least a decade, probably more. He moved as slowly as cold ketchup. Every gesture the man made was meticulously invoked as if his hip would snap if he made the wrong move. He greeted us mumbling, but welcoming. He seemed quite nice actually, still doing his thing. He’s probably there right now still doing his thing at 102. The thing though was this. Before he started working on our locks (which he wanted to do right away while we waited, what service!) he sprayed WD-40 on his hands. We looked at him quizzically, which he must have gotten a lot of because he quickly and mumbly explained to us that the WD-40 helped his arthritis. Poor guy. We felt terrible for him, but also confused, so we sat there and watched him lube his hand before each lock he changed, and each new key he produced. He was of sounds enough mind to paper towel off his hands before picking up the pen to write the invoice.
At the time it became a perennial joke to us that this poor old man was methodically oiling himself to alleviate his arthritis but there was always a poignancy to the locksmith and his shop on Easton Avenue that I’ve felt to this day, but never really thought about in years. Reading Anil Dashes’ account of almost being robbed dredged up the memory and it’s just one of those odd experiences I hope I never forget about. A recent map of the area suggests the locksmith is no longer there, I hope the old man is retired somewhere WD-40′ing his hands in preparation to raise a drink.
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