A Vocabulary Lesson

Words for the day:
Lock: Chapa
Key: Llave
Locksmith: Cerrajero

Chuck and I got a surprise, intensive vocabulary course Saturday night. After many years of vigilant service, the lock on our front door finally surrendered to the salt air. The internals were rusted. We couldn't get into the house. We were facing quite the predicament. After our robbery, every possible entry and exit point to the house had been fortified. All of Chuck's tools and anything else that would have been helpful was in a locked toolbox behind two stout metal doors. The keys to the doors and toolbox were in the house.

The first thing we did was start calling people. We started with our A list, but eventually made it to anyone in the cell phone directory. No luck. 10:00 Saturday night is prime party time here in Mazatlan. Everybody is out having a good time. We would have given up and gone to a motel, except the poor dogs were just on the other side of the door crying and scratching for us to come in.

I went next door because I saw Edgar just got home. Times when I am stressed or flustered are not my best Spanish speaking moments, but I did at least remember to start off with, "¡Buenas noches!" However I followed it with, "¿Tiene grasa para...?" and, realizing I didn't know the word for lock, mimed the action of a key in his door. It occurred to me later that I used the wrong word. Grasa is grease, as in fat. Aceite, which means oil, would have been better, but the best choice would have been lubricante. Thankfully, he understood me anyway. Unfortunately, after several minutes of searching, he came up empty.

I walked around the corner to our friend Liane's house. I knew she was home and awake because we had just dropped her off. She looked around and came up with Pam cooking spray and motor oil. I figured neither was going to make the problem worse, so thusly armed with lubricants, we both set off back to my house.

On the way, we passed a Mexican couple saying goodnight to each other. Emboldened by desperation, I stopped and asked them if they had any WD-40. I got two very quizzical looks. So I started to explain my problem in my bad, stress-induced Spanish. The young woman, Alma, got the gist of what I was saying and went inside to ask her mother for help.

Alma returned a few moments later and invited me, a complete stranger and a foreigner, into her home. Liane went to my house with our improvised lock oils, and I went into Alma's house. Alma's mother, also named Alma, was waiting for me with her phone number list: an aged, battered piece of cardboard with telephone numbers scrawled on it in a semi-orderly fashion. She called her first choice locksmith and got no answer. Same result when she called her second choice locksmith. Did I mention it was Saturday night? She told me she would keep trying. I thanked her and went home.

I returned home hoping that either the motor oil or the Pam had worked, only to discover that now not only would the lock not open, but the key was hopelessly stuck in the door. As the three of us listened to the dogs cry and pondered what to do next, Alma the elder came walking down the street with her youngest daughter Abigale and Abigale's boyfriend Hector. Alma had brought them because Hector speaks pretty decent English.

True to her word, Alma had kept trying and managed to get a hold of a relative of the first locksmith, but she didn't have my information to leave. She had come with her telephone number list, so I gave her my cell phone and, between the two of us, we left a message with the relative for the locksmith. It was cold and windy so Alma went home, but Hector and Abigale kindly stayed behind to translate for us when the locksmith arrived.

The five of us – myself, Chuck, Liane, Abigale, and Hector – huddled in the corner of the garage in an effort to avoid the wind and made small talk. But after half an hour, Hector hypothesized that a return phone call would not be forthcoming and suggested that we go and visit the second choice locksmith, since he did not have a phone number. The question came up whether we should walk or drive. We decided to drive since the truck has a very effective heater.

After following the series of izquierdos and derrechos (lefts and rights) indicated by Hector, we found ourselves in front of the same locksmith shop we used to get copies of our house keys made when we first moved in. The place was dark and shut, but Hector got out and knocked on the door. There was no answer, but there was a telephone number painted on the door.

Hector got out his cell phone to call, but I quickly handed him my phone to use. I have gotten good at that; there is no point in Hector using his precious pesos to make a phone call for me. He actually got the locksmith on the phone, but the locksmith recently moved out to Colonia Juarez and would not come back to downtown tonight. He did, however recommend another locksmith.

The five of us piled back into the truck and headed for the next locksmith. We ended up near the cathedral and parked in front of Plaza Republica. We entered a narrow, shadowed, twisting alleyway, where, it turns out, there are a number of apartments. The locksmith's apartment was at the top of a steep flight of stairs without a handrail. Discretion being the better part of valor, I elected to wait at the bottom of the stairs and allowed Hector to go knock on the door.

Hector knocked. The rest of us waited. Hector knocked again. We waited some more. Finally, the lady downstairs opened her door to find out what was going on. The small area was so cramped with the four of us standing there that she couldn't even come outside. She informed us the locksmith was at a wedding. We knew right then there was no way we were getting that locksmith that night, so we thanked her and left.

As we were exiting the alley, my phone rang. My heart leapt in the hopes that it was a locksmith, but it was our friend Juan. He was responding to our earlier call for help. We explained our predicament, and he told us to stay where we were, he would come meet us. Mere moments later, he and Lupita came riding up on the motorcycle. It should have been a white stallion.

I started to make introductions, but it was unnecessary; Juan knew everyone in the group. I swear Juan knows every living soul in Mazatlan. The pleasantries dispensed with, our odyssey continued. Juan and Lupita got on the motorcycle, the remaining five of us got into the truck, and we went to see locksmith number three. By this point, you really should have some appropriate music in your head: perhaps something from the Keystone Cops or Flight of the Bumblebee.

Locksmith number three was nowhere to be found. Ditto for locksmith number four. Juan stopped and thought a moment, then came up with one more locksmith. So he and Lupita got on the bike, the rest of us got in the truck, and our little caravan set off through the city once more. It was starting to feel like the beginning to a bad joke: "How many people does it take to hire a locksmith?"

We arrived at locksmith number five and were greeted with the now-familiar, quiet darkness. No one could think of anything else to do. Out of desperation, we started to ask anyone who appeared on the street "¿Es usted un cerrajero?" (are you a locksmith?) I am a firm believer that if you can make the Fates laugh, they will relent. I think we gave them a chuckle, because the first guy we asked was the son of the locksmith.

Jesus, the son of the locksmith, told us his dad wasn't around, but he could help us. (Were all the lockmiths in town at some giant locksmith wedding?) He had tools, but he had no car. No problem, we all chorused, climb in with us. I still can't believe everyone got in the car with us. That's the kind of thing that makes you a headline in the newspaper or gets your face on a milk carton back in the US. Since we now had a locksmith, Juan and Lupita elected to return to their house. The rest of us went to our house to deal with the obstinate lock.

When Jesus saw the lock, he said there was no way to repair it. All he could do was remove the lock cylinder. I said fine. He went on to explain that it wouldn't be a surgical removal; the lock would no longer function. I said fine. He continued, informing us that it wouldn't be possible to replace the lock that night. Hector had been translating for us the whole time. I turned to Hector and said, "I don't care just get me into my house!" I could tell by the smile on Jesus' face that he understood what I said perfectly.

Jesus reached into his tool bag and pulled out a screwdriver and pair of pliers. No drill. No vice grips. Nothing fancy. I thought I was watching the Great Jesustini: "Watch in awe as I remove this steel lock cylinder with nothing more that an ordinary screw driver and household pliers. Nothing up my sleeves..." But he did it. He used the screw driver like a chisel and the pliers like a hammer and cut the lock into little, tiny pieces. And he didn't damage the door.

At 2:00 AM, we finally had access to our house. Yea!!!!! Liane had left a little earlier. Hector and Abigale walked home. We made arrangements to pick up Jesus on Sunday so he could install a new lock, and Chuck drove him back home.

You may be wondering what it cost to have a locksmith out in the middle of the night on Saturday and then again on a Sunday. I was sure worried. I didn't know if we would have enough money. But here it is: Saturday night lock removal: $70MXN. New lock: $108MXN. Sunday lock installation: $50MXN. Just in case you think I mistyped, that's less than $25US. And yes, we tipped him.

All things considered. it was a really great Saturday night. We got to hang out with friends, meet wonderful new people, and discover previously unknown parts of the city. Plus, I now have the phone number of a very competent emergency locksmith on speed dial. Maybe not the way I would choose to spend every Saturday night, but I would certainly do it again.