The Locksmith

I like how good things come out of bad things. Is that too Pollyanna of me? Is that too Silver Lining? But I think it's true. It happens all the time. It's doesn't make the bad less bad. But I do think the bad makes the good more good.

For example, I had to call a locksmith in because I was having trouble with my landlady, and I needed to lock my door. So I got her to give me a padlock for my bedroom door in the house. She gave me a cheap lock, which I meant to replace. But the door jamb is an odd size, and I couldn't get my big Master lock to go in, so I just used hers. But on Tuesday, I walked out to the store to get my copy of Jewish Literacy by Joseph Telushkin, and when I returned, my lock wasn't working. Try as I might, the key wouldn't open it. So I got out the screwdriver, took off the metal plate, and called the locksmith.

I called the first number I saw, which is not always a good idea. I had doubts about the company, based on the incompetency of the receptionist, and the fact that she sounded like she wasn't working for a locksmith company, but rather a telephone call center in Ohio. But I went with it anyway. I didn't even ask for the rates because I planned to have them bill my landlady.

When the guy showed up, he was driving a bright yellow car, the size of something you might see in Europe. He got out and immediately started opening doors, walking around. I wasn't sure what he was doing. He got out a blue plastic toolbox. A large tangle of extension cord. He managed to keep the cardboard boxes from falling out of the back seat. He walked around the other side, leaving the car keys in the passenger side door, and asked me if I could hand them to him. I looked at the Enterprise key chain and thought this all seemed a little strange. "Look, I'm not sure about this," I told him. "What? You don't trust me? What's the matter?"

"I'm just not comfortable. I don't think this is a good idea."

My landlady was watering her garden.

"Well, I have to at least charge you for the visit."

I thought about it. I didn't have to pay them. They couldn't make me. But I'd have to call a whole other locksmith. I'd have to wait for hours maybe. They might not come today. "Fine." I said. "Come inside, I'll show you my door." But first he had to put the grinder away. All you need is a big pair of clippers, I told him. Trust me.

Upstairs, we inspected the lock. I apologized for the mess in the room. I hadn't cleaned it in days. I had clothes, books, my water bottle on the floor. Normally, I can't stand a mess.

He says he'll have to charge me $90 for the visit, and $20 to cut the lock. I tell him that's ridiculous, I can't pay. They'll have to charge my landlady. They can send her the bill. They don't send bills, he tells me. This is very unusual. Maybe this is a West Coast thing. Or maybe it's sketchy, as I presumed. What kind of company doesn't send bills? He says I need to pay up front.

So we are arguing over this. He says he'd like to help me, because I'm Jewish and he's Jewish. I touch the Star of David around my neck. He has dark hair, dark eyes. A strange accent. I am aware of my Mezuzah. And my Tanakh there by my bed. My "Living a Jewish life." All in plain view. I guess I am Jewish. Or at least I have the trappings of Jewishness. I have the Things of Jewish around me, and I'm saying who I am, or who I feel like, without even realizing it.

And here he is, a random guy who does house calls for a locksmith company, who comes to my house and wants to help me because I am Jewish and I have a crazy landlady, but he doesn't want to lose his job. So I agree to pay him. He cuts the lock for free, and I hand him the $90. I give him the lock as well. And I thank him.

He says his name is Roy. I don't know what his real name is, but he's from Israel. That explains his accent. He doesn't know that I'm not really Jewish, but it doesn't matter. I am Jewish to him, and that's as Jewish as I need to be.

He said he wanted to keep my number. I said no, thank you, although he seemed very sweet. I just don't think that's why he was there for me. But Hashem sends people to each other for all kinds of reasons. It's not always romance or matchmaking. He sent me a crazy landlady, who sent me a padlock, who sent me to call the locksmith, who sent this Jew from Israel, who wanted to help me. He cared about me. Because I was Jewish. And what does that mean? It means we're part of a community. The Land of Israel came to my door. It recognized me. And that means something.

To him, what does it mean? It means he leaves the Land of Israel, but he finds a Jewish giyoret with a Mezuzah and a Star of David on her neck, who needs her padlock broken, to protect her from an intrusive landlady, who threatened him on the way out. But I protected him. I stood up for him. Because I wasn't going to let anything happen to him, either. We are family. We are everywhere. We are all the Land of Israel.