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 left 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 small 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 manual lathe.
In the early stages prior to engaging the machine the man needed a fag to replace the butt he had spat out soon after finishing with the Bangla boy. As usual there was nothing left of tobacco in the discarded butt, completely dead.
From a small tin that could hold no more than eight or ten cigarettes, yellow coloured top and bright, shiny aluminium within, the man 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 to his customer.
— Oh uncle. Xie xie ni.
Shoulder blades outlined beneath his loose, discoloured shirt. He was one of the classic fly-weights. It was good to lay a comradely hand on the man.
Perhaps there was another tin or pack in his bag beside the lathe.
Breathing difficulties seemed to be the reason the new stick too needed to be discarded a short while after lighting. The stubbing was too quick, it had not been caught. It must have been a plucking of the hot head, because there was no sign of blackening on the cigarette lying between the Key-uncle's feet.
There was no further re-lighting.
Hoisting up from the squat required a couple of slow, preparatory adjustments of feet for balance.
This was the second cut for the same Carpmael room; perhaps the man remembered from eight or nine months back. There had been no statement of price prior to getting underway this time.
Late afternoon uncle caught the bus around on Changi Road. Possibly he had noticed the greetings. The right eye was covered almost entirely with a milky film—even shapes would be beyond him on that side. The man had seen enough no doubt and got by now with his blurriness.
Around in Changi Road first sighting of the Key-uncle after a longer gap one confused him with the food scavenger who commonly passed there for the busy bus-stop bin, a fellow Chinese some years younger and kilograms heavier than Key-uncle. This chap always made a big show of his scoffing and swilling, taunting the well-to-do waiting for the buses. The Key-uncle was much more contained. Nevertheless, it was easy to confuse the men.
A few years ago Omar the money-changer had put in a complaint about the Key-man illegally cluttering the public thoroughfare. Where would we be if everyone set-up like that? Omar griped.
Did the Key-uncle own the boarded-up shop in front where he squatted, a widower tunnelling through time, living independently of the children, passing the fashionable boutiques on Joo Chiat Road without giving them notice?
2015
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