I needed to see Monsieur Lafleur to replace a faulty combination lock.
The one I had simply wasn't working so well anymore. Its five buttons had become numb and powerless, often sinking into nothingness and arbitrarily denying access. It had become somewhat of a sore spot in my life. And I had ignored it long enough.
But let's not get too lost in metaphors. The Simplex 1000 Mechanical Pushbutton Lock that Monsieur Lafleur had suggested as a suitable replacement, over the phone, was pretty much identical to the one that protruded from the thick oak Mothership door for the last seven years - and, quite possibly, the last 20 or even 30 before its pharmaceutical-to-musical reincarnation. Which all struck me as comforting, I have to say. This simple mechanical, single access-code lock, eliminated the material and labour expense of battery replacements. It said so on the website. Not cheap by any means, it instead embodied a certain timeless simplicity, an engineering Rembrandt in an age of fast food gadgets, if you will. Lock and locksmith, one in the same. Because if Monsieur Lafleur embodied anything - and he did, a great many things indeed - it was comfort and continuity.
I had carefully planned my day around a mid-morning pickup and relatively effortless installation of said Simplex 1000. Monsieur Lafleur, without committing to it, had assured me a peaceful transfer of mechanical power. But like many innocuous renovation projects in my life, this one was not destined to be so simple. Too many tiny adjustments had to be made. I worked patiently. But before I knew it, it was 2 pm on a Friday afternoon and I was headed back to see the old locksmith.
People never seem to drive as absent-mindedly slowly as when you're in a rush. I arrived 15 minutes later, as promised, but less patient than I should have been. I was greeted with a minor lineup. A loud sighed betrayed my lips. The young dude manning the cash immediately acknowledged the sloppy, half-opened box in my hand but then went right back to getting a play-by-play on how to ring up a proper bill by a more pleasant-looking middle aged woman who I had already convinced myself must be family. Monsieur Lafleur sat to the left of the chaos, hunched over his key cutter. I was quickly identified as the combination lock guy and then just as quickly left for dead. The young dude had his own work to finish before he punched out, he'd explain to me eventually; work which apparently involved taking every opportunity to break Monsieur Lafleur's concentration with another set of questions. A second, deeper sigh escaped me. It was the daughter who finally alerted the old locksmith to my presence. "Salut, jeune homme," he acknowledged with a disarming flick of his glasses. Did he remember me? Impossible to tell. The simple greeting immediately dissolved my impatience as he sent my brand new faulty combination lock and his daughter back to the supplier. It would be a half hour wait, he explained, unapologetic but with a certain tender humanity nonetheless.
I accepted. But before I could get any more words in, I heard the door struggle behind me. Behind it stood a crumpled old man with a walker, fighting a losing battle with the hydraulic door closer. I pulled the door open for him and he thanked me without looking up. He continued to make his way to the counter, determined, at a snail's pace. I watched him struggle. My own petty impatience suddenly hung on me like adolescent cologne. The young dude did his best to acknowledge the presence inching toward him but seemed uncomfortable as the man came to a full stop, slowly reached into his bag and pulled out the barrel of a lock with the key still attached to it, his hand trembling with the mechanical entrails. "I need a longer piece for this one," he croaked, in the deliberate French of a first-generation immigrant. He talked just like he walked, the intensity in his eyes other-worldly. And though the young dude seemed to know exactly what the man needed, I predicted his almost instinctive impulse to defer the case to Monsieur Lafleur who, it turns out, was now waiting patiently on hold while his supplier tried to figure out where I had got wrong. Obviously. Apparently, I had broken the sticker seal that nulled the guarantee while attempting to figure out why my brand new combination lock was not responding to the combination we had all agreed on. The frustration of the relayed message had swelled up in me like bad sushi. I assured Monsieur Lafleur that I had simply followed the instruction manual. Speaking loud enough so the person on the other line could hear me, I asked him if this supplier even knew what he was talking about. The old locksmith remained silent.
Now, beckoned by his young dude in training, he hung up and approached the counter. And even as I let out a third sigh, Monsieur Lafleur's pleasantness seemed to transform the crumpled man before him. Distracted, I hadn't noticed that his walker had turned into a small stool on which he could sit more comfortably on, revealing a man who had decided long ago to negotiate his own molecular breakdown with equal parts practicality and humour. The young dude long gone, Monsieur Lafleur fixed the barrel in question himself as the two discussed the perils of being a landlord in a province that favoured tenants every single time. The same words I'd heard many times from my own mother must have rung especially true for both old timers - one crumpled by time, the other visibly unscathed by its passage. Monsieur Lafleur presented the crumpled old man with the finished product, cracked a quick joke and then refused to take the old man's $5, explaining that he'd simply add it to the next bill the next time he came around. The crumpled old man seemed unable to process the kind gesture and slowly reached in his wallet, looking for cash. But the old locksmith simply waved him away.
Once he was gone, I scanned Monsieur Lafleur with fresh eyes. Here was a man who probably spent a good chunk of his life unlocking, disassembling and decoding. It struck me, right then and there, that there was probably nothing the old locksmith couldn't solve. I explained my struggles to him again and he assured me we'd get to the bottom of it. "You wouldn't believe the things that pass off as work on a Friday afternoon," he explained to me without further judgment. And when my combination lock returned with his daughter, we examined the instruction manual together. I had been vindicated. But that didn't seem important anymore. What was most satisfying was spending the next half an hour together, both hunched over that same combination lock, trying to figure out what had gone wrong in the first place. And as we worked it out, unscrewing and retesting, his patience became mine. In his work ethic and thought process I saw a man who sought refuge in the calm; a man who would rather wait an extra hour to avoid traffic then to have to helplessly curse through it; a man who'd rather let his supplier figure out his own errors by asking him to repeat the same procedure, without uttering a single nasty word; a man who valued health, happiness and piece of mind, above all else.
We were not so different, Monsieur Lafleur and I. Men of ideals, who were most disappointed when we fell short. When the combination lock was fixed and ready to go, we both let out a collective sigh of relief. And before I left, he urged me to take some sweets with me, the navy blue packaging revealing a solid white keyhole outline with his name written inside it. "And take some for your wife as well," he urged with a wink. "Even if she doesn't want them, it's the thought that counts."
The keys to some kind of kingdom, I thought to myself, smiling.
The one I had simply wasn't working so well anymore. Its five buttons had become numb and powerless, often sinking into nothingness and arbitrarily denying access. It had become somewhat of a sore spot in my life. And I had ignored it long enough.
But let's not get too lost in metaphors. The Simplex 1000 Mechanical Pushbutton Lock that Monsieur Lafleur had suggested as a suitable replacement, over the phone, was pretty much identical to the one that protruded from the thick oak Mothership door for the last seven years - and, quite possibly, the last 20 or even 30 before its pharmaceutical-to-musical reincarnation. Which all struck me as comforting, I have to say. This simple mechanical, single access-code lock, eliminated the material and labour expense of battery replacements. It said so on the website. Not cheap by any means, it instead embodied a certain timeless simplicity, an engineering Rembrandt in an age of fast food gadgets, if you will. Lock and locksmith, one in the same. Because if Monsieur Lafleur embodied anything - and he did, a great many things indeed - it was comfort and continuity.
I had carefully planned my day around a mid-morning pickup and relatively effortless installation of said Simplex 1000. Monsieur Lafleur, without committing to it, had assured me a peaceful transfer of mechanical power. But like many innocuous renovation projects in my life, this one was not destined to be so simple. Too many tiny adjustments had to be made. I worked patiently. But before I knew it, it was 2 pm on a Friday afternoon and I was headed back to see the old locksmith.
People never seem to drive as absent-mindedly slowly as when you're in a rush. I arrived 15 minutes later, as promised, but less patient than I should have been. I was greeted with a minor lineup. A loud sighed betrayed my lips. The young dude manning the cash immediately acknowledged the sloppy, half-opened box in my hand but then went right back to getting a play-by-play on how to ring up a proper bill by a more pleasant-looking middle aged woman who I had already convinced myself must be family. Monsieur Lafleur sat to the left of the chaos, hunched over his key cutter. I was quickly identified as the combination lock guy and then just as quickly left for dead. The young dude had his own work to finish before he punched out, he'd explain to me eventually; work which apparently involved taking every opportunity to break Monsieur Lafleur's concentration with another set of questions. A second, deeper sigh escaped me. It was the daughter who finally alerted the old locksmith to my presence. "Salut, jeune homme," he acknowledged with a disarming flick of his glasses. Did he remember me? Impossible to tell. The simple greeting immediately dissolved my impatience as he sent my brand new faulty combination lock and his daughter back to the supplier. It would be a half hour wait, he explained, unapologetic but with a certain tender humanity nonetheless.
I accepted. But before I could get any more words in, I heard the door struggle behind me. Behind it stood a crumpled old man with a walker, fighting a losing battle with the hydraulic door closer. I pulled the door open for him and he thanked me without looking up. He continued to make his way to the counter, determined, at a snail's pace. I watched him struggle. My own petty impatience suddenly hung on me like adolescent cologne. The young dude did his best to acknowledge the presence inching toward him but seemed uncomfortable as the man came to a full stop, slowly reached into his bag and pulled out the barrel of a lock with the key still attached to it, his hand trembling with the mechanical entrails. "I need a longer piece for this one," he croaked, in the deliberate French of a first-generation immigrant. He talked just like he walked, the intensity in his eyes other-worldly. And though the young dude seemed to know exactly what the man needed, I predicted his almost instinctive impulse to defer the case to Monsieur Lafleur who, it turns out, was now waiting patiently on hold while his supplier tried to figure out where I had got wrong. Obviously. Apparently, I had broken the sticker seal that nulled the guarantee while attempting to figure out why my brand new combination lock was not responding to the combination we had all agreed on. The frustration of the relayed message had swelled up in me like bad sushi. I assured Monsieur Lafleur that I had simply followed the instruction manual. Speaking loud enough so the person on the other line could hear me, I asked him if this supplier even knew what he was talking about. The old locksmith remained silent.
Now, beckoned by his young dude in training, he hung up and approached the counter. And even as I let out a third sigh, Monsieur Lafleur's pleasantness seemed to transform the crumpled man before him. Distracted, I hadn't noticed that his walker had turned into a small stool on which he could sit more comfortably on, revealing a man who had decided long ago to negotiate his own molecular breakdown with equal parts practicality and humour. The young dude long gone, Monsieur Lafleur fixed the barrel in question himself as the two discussed the perils of being a landlord in a province that favoured tenants every single time. The same words I'd heard many times from my own mother must have rung especially true for both old timers - one crumpled by time, the other visibly unscathed by its passage. Monsieur Lafleur presented the crumpled old man with the finished product, cracked a quick joke and then refused to take the old man's $5, explaining that he'd simply add it to the next bill the next time he came around. The crumpled old man seemed unable to process the kind gesture and slowly reached in his wallet, looking for cash. But the old locksmith simply waved him away.
Once he was gone, I scanned Monsieur Lafleur with fresh eyes. Here was a man who probably spent a good chunk of his life unlocking, disassembling and decoding. It struck me, right then and there, that there was probably nothing the old locksmith couldn't solve. I explained my struggles to him again and he assured me we'd get to the bottom of it. "You wouldn't believe the things that pass off as work on a Friday afternoon," he explained to me without further judgment. And when my combination lock returned with his daughter, we examined the instruction manual together. I had been vindicated. But that didn't seem important anymore. What was most satisfying was spending the next half an hour together, both hunched over that same combination lock, trying to figure out what had gone wrong in the first place. And as we worked it out, unscrewing and retesting, his patience became mine. In his work ethic and thought process I saw a man who sought refuge in the calm; a man who would rather wait an extra hour to avoid traffic then to have to helplessly curse through it; a man who'd rather let his supplier figure out his own errors by asking him to repeat the same procedure, without uttering a single nasty word; a man who valued health, happiness and piece of mind, above all else.
We were not so different, Monsieur Lafleur and I. Men of ideals, who were most disappointed when we fell short. When the combination lock was fixed and ready to go, we both let out a collective sigh of relief. And before I left, he urged me to take some sweets with me, the navy blue packaging revealing a solid white keyhole outline with his name written inside it. "And take some for your wife as well," he urged with a wink. "Even if she doesn't want them, it's the thought that counts."
The keys to some kind of kingdom, I thought to myself, smiling.
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