The Locksmith
THE LOCKSMITH cannot speak well. He never liked school. When he was a child, the others called him Tombstone. They threw things at him. Bottles and food waste and dirt clumps studded with gravel. Though he was much larger than they were, he remained as still and as quiet as he could while enduring these acts.
The locksmith is not allowed a driver’s license. He rides a bicycle from customer to customer, granting them entry. He likes to think about the number zero. He likes to think about time travel. He likes to think about shadows. He has watched many videos on each of these subjects.
When customers engage with him he is polite. The locksmith nods and goes about his work in silence. As a child he suffered a traumatic head injury at the hands of his stepfather, and now he rarely smiles. It is painful to do so. The customers are deeply troubled by his presence, by his ineffable, clouded expression. But they must regain access to their homes, to their automobiles.
A woman calls the locksmith. She is screaming. Her son has shut himself inside her Lexus and refuses to open the door. Her only spare is with the father, she says, who is out of the country on business. Intermittently she shouts at her son while, it seems, banging on the hood of the car. She asks for an estimate and then gives the locksmith her address. The locksmith hangs up
