runswithscissors

Wednesday, May 07, 2003

Shortly after I finished yesterday's entry, the buzzer in the kitchen started up. I grabbed the intercom phone thingy, heard the locksmith on the other end, buzzed him in. Then opened the apartment door -- the door with the lock that needed attention -- and waited.

This piso is located on what in the States would be the fifth floor. In an old building, no elevator. I'm used to the climb, but visitors who aren't sometimes need a little time to make the trip up. Sure enough, a minute or two later slow footsteps became audible, accompanied by breathing that seemed to get louder, more labored as the steps slowly approached. Finally, the footsteps arrived at the last flight, a moment later a figure came slowly into view. And when he pulled himself up onto this landing and shuffled in my direction, I saw I'd been sent a Ned Beatty lookalike to take care of my lock. About 5'-7", seriously hefty, scruffy short brown hair, work clothes, carrying a took kit, speaking a classic type of street Spanish, words running together, the terminating letters of many words dropped completely, so that I had to concentrate to get everything he came out with. A character, with a distinct personality, sounding and feeling with every passing minute more and more like the Spanish urban version of Ned Beatty doing a good ol' boy. Which made me so happy it's hard to describe.

I am absurdly easy to please. Give me a good people-watching opportunity, I am genuinely, absurdly delighted. Which is what happened yesterday. The lock became secondary. Talking with the locksmith became the main event.

He listens to my brief history of the problem, making comments, checking out the lock casing. I give him a key, he shuts the door, I hear him fiddling around out there, mumbling to himself, locking it, unlocking it, locking it, unlocking it. The door opens back up, he's babbling away. He lights up a cigarette, tells me the lock (and the parts for it) haven't been made for several years so that a repair job is out -- it'll have to be a replacement with a new, equivalent unit. I ask him how much that would be, he pulls out his mobile phone, calls the office. They answer, he asks for a price on a replacement for a GMG lock. They can't seem to hear him, so he repeats: GMG. Then again. Then again. Then again. Then again. He's looking up at the ceiling, an expression of resigned exasperation on his face, repeating "GMG" over and over. They finally get it, they ask him to hold, he says fine. Then they disconnect him -- he's going, "¡Hola! ¡Hola!", followed by brief mumbled swearing. He tells me they'll call him back in a minute, we stand for a moment in silence, him pulling at the cigarette. We get chatting about this and that, he asks if he can use the toilet, I say, "¡Claro! ¡Por supuesto!" He steps into the bog, pushes the door mostly closed, I walk into the kitchen to do something, the sound of loud tinkling coming from the bathroom, followed by the toilet flushing. He re-emerges, sighing in happy relief.

I ask him if he'd like something to drink, he declines saying that he'd just had a coffee, mentions that this is his last call for the day, that after this he'll head out for a beer ("una cervezita!") then go home and watch the game. [An important game of fútbol: Real Madrid v. Juventus (from Turin, Italy), one of the two semi-final match-ups in this year's edition of the Champion's League. Real Madrid took it, 2-1.]

His phone rings, he answers, gets the information, hangs up. Before going into the bathroom, he'd put his cigarette on one of the steps of the last flight of stairs that ascends to the building's three rooftop units, carefully so it wouldn't burn anything. He now picks it back up, flicking a teensy bit of ash off down the stairwell, gives me the news that the replacement job for the lock will be fairly expensive. I tell him I'll need to talk to the landlords about that before making any decision. He writes up a receipt for the visit -- less expensive than I'd been anticipating -- hands it off, chatting the whole time, counseling me on how to break the news to the landlords (he seems to be working on the assumption that my landlords, or maybe all landlords, are difficult, which is anything but the reality in my case), cigarette hanging from his lips, moving as he talks.

He hands me the receipt, still counseling me on how to present the situation, finally picks up his tool-kit. I thank him for his help, he instructs me on what to say next time I call the office to follow up on this job, I thank him again, he repeats the instructions, I thank him once more, he waves, we say good-bye, he heads off down the stairs, a bit of cigarette smoke drifting in his wake.

And there you have it. Fifteen minutes with the Spanish Ned Beatty.

I don't know how my description of this encounter came off, but Ned was no buffoon. I think he's good at his job, with a good eye for what he was dealing with. And seriously entertaining. Hard to beat a combo like that.

This world of ours: filled with great characters, most of them going around in the guise of normal folk.

6:34:11 PM

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