The Key (Mar25)

 

A copy of the room key was needed. Last week Ni had broken the spare trying to let herself in. Even with only a fortnight before the trip to Jogja, it was good insurance. Once already there had been a lockout after lost keys.

First stop the old uncle was busy with a young Bangla needing a number of cuttings. Returning after the supermarket he was just finishing with the lad.

A cigarette paper-sized slip was folded and cut at an angle either end. The first angles were wrong and the paper was cut again. It slipped into the groove of the key for better grip on the lathe.

Prior to the machining the uncle needed a fag to replace the butt he had spat out soon after finishing with the Bangla boy. There was nothing of tobacco in the discarded butt; completely dead.

From a small tin that could hold no more than 9 - 10 ciggies, yellow coloured top and bright, shiny aluminium within, the uncle had drawn the replacement. Taking a stick left one spare in the tin. This the key uncle suddenly pulled out with the other to offer his customer.

Oh uncle. Xie xie ni.

Shoulder blades outlined beneath his loose, discoloured shirt. Uncle was one of the classic flyweights. Good to lay a comradely hand on the man. Perhaps there was another tin or pack in his bag by the lathe.

Breathing difficulties seemed to be the reason the new stick too was discarded a short while after lighting. The stubbing was too quick to catch; it must have been a plucking of the hot head, because there was no sign of blackening between the uncle's feet.

There was no further re-lighting.

Hoisting up from his squat required a couple of slow, preparatory adjustments for balance. This was the second cut for the same Carpmael room; perhaps the man remembered 8 - 9 months back. There had been no statement of price this time.

Afternoons uncle caught the bus on Changi Road by the 7Eleven. Possibly he had noticed the greetings. The right eye was covered with a milky film—even shapes would be beyond the man that side.

Around in Changi Road one often confused the uncle with the food scavenger at the bin by the bus-stop, a fellow Chinese some years younger and kilograms heavier. This other always made a show of his scoffing and swilling for the commuters.

The key uncle was far more contained. Nevertheless, it was easy to confuse the men.

A few years ago Omar the money-changer had complained about the key uncle cluttering the thoroughfare. Where would we be if everyone set-up like that?

Did the key uncle own the shuttered premises where he squatted, a widower tunnelling through time, living independently of the children, passing the fashionable boutiques on Joo Chiat Road without any notice?