The Locksmith

Who even needs metaphors?

After a scorcher of a Sunday, in more than one sense of the word, I wanted soft serve. We drove over to Smyth's, but since we had Chalupa in the car and the line was super long, we decided to go to Dairy Queen instead. (This detail honestly doesn't matter for the story, but I am terrible at this kind of story telling so bear with me!)

As we were driving home with our ice cream, I glanced at the keys dangling from the ignition, and it dawned on me. I have M.J.'s car key on a separate key ring since I rarely need it, and that ring does not have a house key. Did you happen to bring your keys? I asked them with a sinking feeling that they didn't. They had not. Ruh-roh.

We parked in the driveway. I called around to several locksmiths. The first one to say they could get a technician here in 20 minutes or so quoted me $29 for the service visit and that they'd give us a price to open the door when they arrived.

Now, it's still super humid and in the mid-80s, too hot for a bulldog to sit outside for any length of time. So we sat in the air-conditioned car waiting and chatting until the guy arrived. I showed him the lock. He took a look and said it would be $225. My face (and heart!) dropped. I had no idea it would be that expensive. He said, let me see what I can do, and a moment later dropped the price to $180. Oy, expensive lesson learned.

It took him about a minute and a half to open the door. And then he said something that surprised me. He said, Neshama. Neshama is Aviva's Hebrew name, and it's tattooed on the inside of my right upper arm. But it took me a moment to realize that's what he was referring to, and then another to realize that meant he had read the Hebrew. You speak Hebrew? I asked. He laughed. I am Israeli! Ethiopian Jewish Israeli, he added.

And suddenly we were chatting in a choppy mix of Hebrew and English, and the energy completely changed from something transactional to something familiar, if not familial. He told me he came here a year ago, but his family is all in Israel. They are ok, he said, but the war goes on and on. He served in the army. אנחנו רוצים שלום, I said – we want peace – and he said, please God. And I swear I just wanted to invite him in for a piece of the blueberry pie I had just bought at the farmstand down the road in Enfield. Well, now we can do $150, he said, as I recited my phone number in Hebrew.

And suddenly I felt teary, and the world felt smaller, and I felt like surely God had a hand in this particular locksmith showing up at my door while bombs and missiles fall in Tel Aviv, in Tehran, in Gaza, while millions of innocent people sleep – or don't sleep – six thousand miles from here, people who just want to get ice cream on a hot summer night without worrying about dying.

I have been acutely aware all day that my opinions and analyses matter not one whit. All I can do is what I can do here – I can water my plants and go swimming and welcome nearly 30 people to a new Jewish writing group and get DQ with my sweet spouse.

Earlier, when I was on my way to the lake alone, I had a chat with God, the kind I used to have often in the car and haven't had as often lately. It was a really good chat, and at the end, I told God that (as God already knows) I always love signs and winks and nods and assurances and affirmations of God's presence, in whatever form they may come. And then a few hours later, there we were, locked out of the house, and a family member from the other side of the world was standing on my porch, opening my door.

Who even needs metaphors?

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