“So you would like two copies of this one and one of each of these?”
“Yes, please.”
“Ok, well this last one, I am afraid, is a pricey one.”
“How much would it be?”
“Twenty bucks…”
“That’s ok, I still need it anyways.”
“Ok, I will have them ready for you in a bit.”
“Thank you.”
As he walked out of the front of the store area with my keys, I started looking around at all the merchandise that was advertised around me. Obviously a men’s store, I guess women don’t often have a copy of their keys made. To the left of me was a large supporting post, covered with advertisements for a security system. It even had a little video-screen playing an add with a horribly annoying song, as I would come to realize after hearing it about fifteen times. Behind the, not so conveniently placed post, was the rest of the store area. Not much to show for really. And behind that was the, what I presume to be, office area. Two other people were in there. At least, that is what I guessed because I saw only one, but clearly he was talking to someone else.
I got out my cell and texted my dad:
“Damn key is twenty bucks to copy!”
The key-guy had walked into an area behind the store and after a minute or two I could hear a machine starting to work on my new key. It sounded like a big robotic arm was moving around lots of sharp and spinning parts as I could hear a series of high pitched noises that sounded like scraping metal at a high speed. I waited patiently for my key to be ready.
After a few minutes another guy came from the office area. “Good afternoon.” He said, in a businesslike manner. “I am just going to fix your other keys.” He told me, just in case I was wondering why he had the nerve to step into the store area and talk to me. I nodded and went on my business of looking around the store. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and when I pulled it out it showed a text from my dad:
“Why make a copy if it? I already have one. I need a copy of your balcony-key.”
I texted back saying:
“Left that one at home. Am copying my door-key and my car-key as well.”
After that, I put my cell back into my pocket. It was warm in here, but I couldn’t very well take my coat off. I looked around a little more.
I noticed there were small signs to put on doors such as toilet-indicators, hung from little hooks beneath the counter. “What an odd place to display merchandise.” I thought.
In the meantime I could still hear the noises coming from the back, now going on for at least five minutes and in my head I pictured a huge machine, with just a tiny vertical door in the front. Upon opening the door, a little light would go on and you would see a fiberglass shelf, where the key should go. After closing the door, the machine would then turn on a laser to measure out every corner of the key to a fraction of a millimeter. Then, the key would be transported into the machine and a new key would be processed. This kept me busy for at least another three minutes after which the key-guy returned from the back, with my brand new key. Carefully he placed it in a vice and started sawing a small piece off. You would think with a sophisticated machine, like the one I pictured in my head, the key would come out done, but nothing was further from the truth. After the sawing, the key came out of the vice and now it was time for sandpapering and polishing. He compared the both keys and then looked at me.
“I am sorry, it’s not exact, I need to make a new one. It will be faster though, because this time the key is already in the computer.”
I really had nothing left to say but: “Ok.” I was going to need the key, so I had no other choice then to wait. I pulled out my cell and texted:
“First copy failed, they are making a new one. I now understand why it costs twenty bucks.”
Within a very short time my dad texted back:
“I’ll pay for the new key. Good luck waiting.”
The key-guy had returned from the back now, was looking up something in a cabinet, turning to face me to give me a ‘please-be-patient-smile’ and then returned to the back area again. I texted my dad:
“At least he key guy is hot. I might give him an extra set too.”
After I hit send a thought came to mind: “Am I really texting this to my dad?” It made me smile as I was thinking. My dad texted back:
“Then let him pay for his own copy!”
I chuckled. My other two keys were done by now and the other key-guy returned them and my own keys to me. In the back, the key-machine was purring and chafing and sawing away. I could just see those lasers cutting out the exact measurements.
By now I was getting pretty sweaty in my warm winter-coat. The store was very warm and I had been in it for at least twenty minutes now, waiting for my key.
I saw some advertisement mags sprawled out on the counter and picked one up to kill some time. It was all about home-security systems and the new 2011 standards for securing your home. I put one in my purse for my dad. I knew he was a security-freak.
At long last, the cute key-guy returned from the back with my new key and now, more meticulously then the last time, he was making the final adjustments. This time the key was copied to his satisfaction and he started ringing up the counter for me.
“Sorry it took so long, but the other one was too short.”
“That’s ok.” I cleverly answered, meanwhile giving him a sweet forgiving smile.
“Together it will be thirtyeight dollars and fourty cents please.”
I paid with my debitcard and the cute key-guy gave me all three of my copies. “Oh, can I take one of these?”, I asked, pointing at the mag in my purse, when he handed me my receipt.
“Ofcourse you can!” He said with a smile. “For future reference, usually you do have to ask before you put things in your purse.” He gave me a wide smile and I could feel my face turn red as a lobster. Time to leave the key-store. When I closed the door behind me I remembered I still have to make a copy of my balcony-key. It made me smile all the way to my car.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The day I got my bicycle broken...
Groceries:
- Eggs
- Bread
- Milk
- Veggies
- Fruit
- Juice
- Pasta
- Tea
- Coffee
- Rice
- Snacks
- Crackers
- Yoghurt
I check my list one more time to make sure I have everything I need. “Shampoo!” I yell out loud to myself in my empty studio apartment. I knew I forgot something. I scribble it quickly at the bottom, grab some grocery bags, my purse and my keys and head out the door.
When I arrive at the supermarket I see that the parking lot is fairly empty. Good, that means it’s probably not too busy. I hate it when it’s busy in supermarkets and people just bump their carts into you. I’m silly like that. Besides I always wonder how people seem to be able to just hit me. Is it because I am just such a freaking big target to hit? Usually when it happens to me I am good for a nice sarcastic remark such as: “Sorry, I thought I could just stand here.” Or “Excuse me for existing.”
Last month a lady bumped into me twice in a row and as I saw her nearing me again over by the deli department, I asked the lady fixing a plate for customers to taste, if she could make crackers with arsenic for all those customers who kept bumping into others. Apparently the bumper-cart-lady over heard me and gave me a glare that could kill. Couldn’t help myself; I had to giggle a little.
Today is different, as the parking lot tells me. Not that I need a space on the parking lot, with my bike, which fits neatly into the rack outside, but it’s still a good indicator. I walk into the store to find my assumptions to be right. Hardly anyone in here. Good, I can make a speedy trip through the isles and be outside within 45 minutes. Sadly, once I get to the bread section some old lady still seems to have overlooked my size 16 and her carts bumps into my royal ass and bounces off slightly. As I am about to turn around and give a snide remark I hear a “I am so sorry.” Even before I manage to turn my head and so I decide to forgive the culprit on the spot.
After just over half an hour I arrive at the cashregister, with my cart loaded with a lot more in than was on my presumptuous list. Well, as long as I can stuff it all into two bags, I should be good. Even before my watch tells me forty minutes have passed, I am walking out of the store, being absolutely balanced by my two heavy bags. When I get home I really need to re-ponder the sudden need I thought I had for two bottles of wine and a gallon of orange juice instead of the usual quart. With great craftsmanship I manage to balance the two immensely heavy bags on the handle of my bicycle. With a little bit of magic and some muscle work, I manage to get myself on the saddle in between and before I know it, I am on the road.
With every stroke my toes alternating my knees gently hit the grocery bags, which makes my struggle to balance it all quite a lot harder, but I manage to move forward, slowly. Then some guy passing in a car apparently thinks it must look very funny and decides to honk at me. Never even for a moment considering the odd chance that his honk my actually startle me and I might fall off my bike. Well, I do. Just as I was going to cross the street, I fall sideways off my bike, and it, still heavy with bags, comes down on me like a brick.”There go the eggs.” A voice echo’s through my head. The driver must have realized his mistake because as I am struggling to get back up form under my bicycle and two heavy bags, I see that he has parked his car on the side of the road and is making his way over to me. His face looks worried and guilty. I really do try to refrain from any sarcasm but still a slight remark just pops out before I can stop it. “Well aren’t you just prince charming on a metal horse!” I try not to look at him and just hope he didn’t hear me, but as he’s pulling the bike off me his face looks fraught with guilt. He can’t even manage to speak properly anymore.
“So sorry…. Had no idea…. Didn’t mean to…”I heard him mumble. When I get up from under my bike I stupidly start gathering a bunch of cherry tomatoes that rolled onto the road out of my bag but the ongoing traffic has no care for my groceries and honks me off the pavement. And so I turn around to see the driver standing in the grass with my bike. Shaking his head over it. Shaking the head is not good. Really. Not. Good. I make my way over to him shouting: “That’s my only means of transportation damnit!” He looks up from the bike and at me, running towards him.
“ I am so sorry for all of this, let me give you a ride home. We can put your bike and bags in the back and then we can get the insurance papers started.” Insurance, on my bike, right! I let him hoist everything into the car and get in the passenger seat myself. On the way to my place I am still too angry to talk, although he does some meager attempts. “I am George by the way.” He says in his friendliest, most apologetic tone. “Angie.” I grunt back at him. I am still wondering what on earth possessed him to honk at someone who’s already almost falling of her bike. But I cannot become calm enough to actually ask him.
By the time we get to my place most of the anger has been replaced with disappointment about my broken bike. George pulls everything out of the back of his truck and helps me drag it all inside.
“So, let me give you my information so we can let insurance take care of this.” He proposes, as we are making our way to the second floor with torn grocery bags and a broken bike. “My bike wasn’t ensured, George, it’s not like a car.” My voice is still not friendly. “Well, let me pay for the costs to get it repaired then.” He offers. His tone of voice is still very apologetic and I can hear he’s putting in a effort, so I decide to get over myself and I ask him in for a cup of tea while he writes down his info.
When we get inside I put the kettle on and start unpacking the groceries, while George has seated himself at my kitchen table and is writing down his phone number and address. “You know, this isn’t normally how I give my number to a pretty woman.” I turn as he starts speaking and see a grin forming on his face. “Whatever.” Is the only thing going through my mind in response to his remark. The water is ready so I put a big mug of tea in front of him and sit down at the other end of the table.
“When you get it fixed, just let me know how much it costs ok?” He says before he hands me the piece of paper. When he stretches his arm out to reach me, a large, metal watch becomes visible on his wrist. I guess we both noticed because suddenly he says: “Oh my, look at the time, I have to be somewhere about 15 minutes ago. Sorry to rush out. Call me ok?” And he storms out of the apartment.
This all happens in such a quick movement that it takes me a few more seconds to process. I walk towards the window, tea in one hand, his note in the other, and open it to watch him get into his car. While pulling the window open as wide as I can, the wind grabs hold of the piece of paper in my hand and draws it outside. I watch it blow up high in the sky, while beneath me a car just turns the corner of the street, seemingly in quite a rush.
- Eggs
- Bread
- Milk
- Veggies
- Fruit
- Juice
- Pasta
- Tea
- Coffee
- Rice
- Snacks
- Crackers
- Yoghurt
I check my list one more time to make sure I have everything I need. “Shampoo!” I yell out loud to myself in my empty studio apartment. I knew I forgot something. I scribble it quickly at the bottom, grab some grocery bags, my purse and my keys and head out the door.
When I arrive at the supermarket I see that the parking lot is fairly empty. Good, that means it’s probably not too busy. I hate it when it’s busy in supermarkets and people just bump their carts into you. I’m silly like that. Besides I always wonder how people seem to be able to just hit me. Is it because I am just such a freaking big target to hit? Usually when it happens to me I am good for a nice sarcastic remark such as: “Sorry, I thought I could just stand here.” Or “Excuse me for existing.”
Last month a lady bumped into me twice in a row and as I saw her nearing me again over by the deli department, I asked the lady fixing a plate for customers to taste, if she could make crackers with arsenic for all those customers who kept bumping into others. Apparently the bumper-cart-lady over heard me and gave me a glare that could kill. Couldn’t help myself; I had to giggle a little.
Today is different, as the parking lot tells me. Not that I need a space on the parking lot, with my bike, which fits neatly into the rack outside, but it’s still a good indicator. I walk into the store to find my assumptions to be right. Hardly anyone in here. Good, I can make a speedy trip through the isles and be outside within 45 minutes. Sadly, once I get to the bread section some old lady still seems to have overlooked my size 16 and her carts bumps into my royal ass and bounces off slightly. As I am about to turn around and give a snide remark I hear a “I am so sorry.” Even before I manage to turn my head and so I decide to forgive the culprit on the spot.
After just over half an hour I arrive at the cashregister, with my cart loaded with a lot more in than was on my presumptuous list. Well, as long as I can stuff it all into two bags, I should be good. Even before my watch tells me forty minutes have passed, I am walking out of the store, being absolutely balanced by my two heavy bags. When I get home I really need to re-ponder the sudden need I thought I had for two bottles of wine and a gallon of orange juice instead of the usual quart. With great craftsmanship I manage to balance the two immensely heavy bags on the handle of my bicycle. With a little bit of magic and some muscle work, I manage to get myself on the saddle in between and before I know it, I am on the road.
With every stroke my toes alternating my knees gently hit the grocery bags, which makes my struggle to balance it all quite a lot harder, but I manage to move forward, slowly. Then some guy passing in a car apparently thinks it must look very funny and decides to honk at me. Never even for a moment considering the odd chance that his honk my actually startle me and I might fall off my bike. Well, I do. Just as I was going to cross the street, I fall sideways off my bike, and it, still heavy with bags, comes down on me like a brick.”There go the eggs.” A voice echo’s through my head. The driver must have realized his mistake because as I am struggling to get back up form under my bicycle and two heavy bags, I see that he has parked his car on the side of the road and is making his way over to me. His face looks worried and guilty. I really do try to refrain from any sarcasm but still a slight remark just pops out before I can stop it. “Well aren’t you just prince charming on a metal horse!” I try not to look at him and just hope he didn’t hear me, but as he’s pulling the bike off me his face looks fraught with guilt. He can’t even manage to speak properly anymore.
“So sorry…. Had no idea…. Didn’t mean to…”I heard him mumble. When I get up from under my bike I stupidly start gathering a bunch of cherry tomatoes that rolled onto the road out of my bag but the ongoing traffic has no care for my groceries and honks me off the pavement. And so I turn around to see the driver standing in the grass with my bike. Shaking his head over it. Shaking the head is not good. Really. Not. Good. I make my way over to him shouting: “That’s my only means of transportation damnit!” He looks up from the bike and at me, running towards him.
“ I am so sorry for all of this, let me give you a ride home. We can put your bike and bags in the back and then we can get the insurance papers started.” Insurance, on my bike, right! I let him hoist everything into the car and get in the passenger seat myself. On the way to my place I am still too angry to talk, although he does some meager attempts. “I am George by the way.” He says in his friendliest, most apologetic tone. “Angie.” I grunt back at him. I am still wondering what on earth possessed him to honk at someone who’s already almost falling of her bike. But I cannot become calm enough to actually ask him.
By the time we get to my place most of the anger has been replaced with disappointment about my broken bike. George pulls everything out of the back of his truck and helps me drag it all inside.
“So, let me give you my information so we can let insurance take care of this.” He proposes, as we are making our way to the second floor with torn grocery bags and a broken bike. “My bike wasn’t ensured, George, it’s not like a car.” My voice is still not friendly. “Well, let me pay for the costs to get it repaired then.” He offers. His tone of voice is still very apologetic and I can hear he’s putting in a effort, so I decide to get over myself and I ask him in for a cup of tea while he writes down his info.
When we get inside I put the kettle on and start unpacking the groceries, while George has seated himself at my kitchen table and is writing down his phone number and address. “You know, this isn’t normally how I give my number to a pretty woman.” I turn as he starts speaking and see a grin forming on his face. “Whatever.” Is the only thing going through my mind in response to his remark. The water is ready so I put a big mug of tea in front of him and sit down at the other end of the table.
“When you get it fixed, just let me know how much it costs ok?” He says before he hands me the piece of paper. When he stretches his arm out to reach me, a large, metal watch becomes visible on his wrist. I guess we both noticed because suddenly he says: “Oh my, look at the time, I have to be somewhere about 15 minutes ago. Sorry to rush out. Call me ok?” And he storms out of the apartment.
This all happens in such a quick movement that it takes me a few more seconds to process. I walk towards the window, tea in one hand, his note in the other, and open it to watch him get into his car. While pulling the window open as wide as I can, the wind grabs hold of the piece of paper in my hand and draws it outside. I watch it blow up high in the sky, while beneath me a car just turns the corner of the street, seemingly in quite a rush.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
When I went to get my bycicle fixed...
`WHAT?!” I yell out, a little too loud, in indignancy of the repairman’s courage to ask me to pay a hundred dollars for a new front wheel on my bicycle, as he smiles at me friendly, knowing he is about to cash-in. I asked him to replace it with a used wheel, and he said he would. Apparently this still has to cost a hundred dollars. I start digging in my purse to find my wallet. Must have tucked it away very well last time, because I am having trouble retrieving it from the bottom. Sometimes it feels like I have a purse like Hermione in Harry Potter, who manages to pull complete tents out of her tiny purse. Finally, I find my wallet.
The repairman has replaced his friendly look with an impatient look as I try to rip out my debitcard. As I am doing this a little bit too roughly, I pull open the coin compartment and unwillingly start torpedoing the now angry-looking repairman with quarters and dimes. A brave dollar finds his way all the way to the door and seems to want to get out of the store as desperately as I do by this time. As I bend down to pick it up, more luck strikes me. On the other side, someone opens the door and with a smack it stops against my head. Great, just what I needed today, is the last thought that slips through my head before the world turns black for just a few moments.
I open my eyes to see the repairman, now bearing a look that is a mixture of fury and scared shitless, hanging over me. His greasy right hand is holding my left arm, probably to check my pulse. I sit up as fast as I can yelling: “I am not dead, you fool!” Bad idea. The blackness tries to find a way back into my head and the bicycle store starts spinning around me. With my hands and arms almost flailing I manage to settle a balance and again look at the repairman who’s face is now formed in an annoyed grin. So many emotions passing by today. I look to the other side and see the well-formed legs of the culprit, fancy dressed in a pair of so-called worn jeans. He’s holding a wet rag that looks like it has just been used to wipe the inside of twelve motorbikes and he is clearly looking for a way to hand it to me without smearing me with grease.
“No thanks…”I wave at him and as I raise my hand to make a gesture to enforce my words, he grabs my hand and with a swift motion he pulls me back to my feet. His and my face are now apart by about 2 inches and I am looking, for the first time today, at a warm, welcoming and slightly apologizing smile. “I really do apologize. I wasn’t trying to kill you really.” He says with a smile while holding out his hand to me. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
By now I have found my way back to consciousness and I am starting to feel the consequences of his little accident trying not to kill me. I feel a huge bruise forming on my forehead and as I rub my hand over it, I notice it has already started to form a bump. Great, just what I needed, a huge bump on my forehead like a five-year old.
“Well, if you know any secrets to get rid of bumps on ones forehead, that would be nice.” I hear my voice is still not what it’s supposed to be.
The repairman has found his way back behind the counter and seems to be tapping his fingers impatiently on the surface. I look at him, for the first time seriously pissed today and my sudden turn-of-the head startles him. He stops and the impatient look on his face changes. In the meantime, my attacker is still standing about 2 inches away from me, still looking at me in an apologetic way so I decide to turn my attention back to him.
“How about a cup of coffee on me?” he finally replies. His answer startles me. I must be a little mixed up from the collision. Did he just ask me out?
“I must say, being abused and asked for coffee in the same afternoon by the same guy I a first. Or it is in that order anyways.” I give him my sweetest smile and he’s giving his back. “I’m Alex by the way.” He says as he, again, sticks his hand out to me. We’re about to walk out of the store as I hear someone clear his throat.
“Oh shit!” I yell out. The stupid repairman. The whole reason I was here. So one more time I draw my wallet and this time I manage to pay successfully. Alex has taken my bicycle outside for me and is waiting there for me with a broad smile on his face. “Sadly my mean s of transportation don’t leave any room for yours.” He says as he points as his little city car. “Why don’t we share mine?” I offer him. I hop onto the back as he starts riding it onto the road. Just about fifteen yards on our way we hit a speedbump and luck will it be, the front wheel breaks off….
The repairman has replaced his friendly look with an impatient look as I try to rip out my debitcard. As I am doing this a little bit too roughly, I pull open the coin compartment and unwillingly start torpedoing the now angry-looking repairman with quarters and dimes. A brave dollar finds his way all the way to the door and seems to want to get out of the store as desperately as I do by this time. As I bend down to pick it up, more luck strikes me. On the other side, someone opens the door and with a smack it stops against my head. Great, just what I needed today, is the last thought that slips through my head before the world turns black for just a few moments.
I open my eyes to see the repairman, now bearing a look that is a mixture of fury and scared shitless, hanging over me. His greasy right hand is holding my left arm, probably to check my pulse. I sit up as fast as I can yelling: “I am not dead, you fool!” Bad idea. The blackness tries to find a way back into my head and the bicycle store starts spinning around me. With my hands and arms almost flailing I manage to settle a balance and again look at the repairman who’s face is now formed in an annoyed grin. So many emotions passing by today. I look to the other side and see the well-formed legs of the culprit, fancy dressed in a pair of so-called worn jeans. He’s holding a wet rag that looks like it has just been used to wipe the inside of twelve motorbikes and he is clearly looking for a way to hand it to me without smearing me with grease.
“No thanks…”I wave at him and as I raise my hand to make a gesture to enforce my words, he grabs my hand and with a swift motion he pulls me back to my feet. His and my face are now apart by about 2 inches and I am looking, for the first time today, at a warm, welcoming and slightly apologizing smile. “I really do apologize. I wasn’t trying to kill you really.” He says with a smile while holding out his hand to me. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
By now I have found my way back to consciousness and I am starting to feel the consequences of his little accident trying not to kill me. I feel a huge bruise forming on my forehead and as I rub my hand over it, I notice it has already started to form a bump. Great, just what I needed, a huge bump on my forehead like a five-year old.
“Well, if you know any secrets to get rid of bumps on ones forehead, that would be nice.” I hear my voice is still not what it’s supposed to be.
The repairman has found his way back behind the counter and seems to be tapping his fingers impatiently on the surface. I look at him, for the first time seriously pissed today and my sudden turn-of-the head startles him. He stops and the impatient look on his face changes. In the meantime, my attacker is still standing about 2 inches away from me, still looking at me in an apologetic way so I decide to turn my attention back to him.
“How about a cup of coffee on me?” he finally replies. His answer startles me. I must be a little mixed up from the collision. Did he just ask me out?
“I must say, being abused and asked for coffee in the same afternoon by the same guy I a first. Or it is in that order anyways.” I give him my sweetest smile and he’s giving his back. “I’m Alex by the way.” He says as he, again, sticks his hand out to me. We’re about to walk out of the store as I hear someone clear his throat.
“Oh shit!” I yell out. The stupid repairman. The whole reason I was here. So one more time I draw my wallet and this time I manage to pay successfully. Alex has taken my bicycle outside for me and is waiting there for me with a broad smile on his face. “Sadly my mean s of transportation don’t leave any room for yours.” He says as he points as his little city car. “Why don’t we share mine?” I offer him. I hop onto the back as he starts riding it onto the road. Just about fifteen yards on our way we hit a speedbump and luck will it be, the front wheel breaks off….
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