Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

When he opened it, we were outside. Or rather half outside. There was a makeshift awning above us, long strips of green plastic with gaps here and there that let the sun in. It ran all the way to the back fence, which was overrun with thick sumac and poison ivy.

“Here we go.” He pushed through a collection of old lawn mowers, past a rusted-out barbecue grill. He picked up an iron gate, something that looked like it came from a haunted mansion somewhere, and moved it aside. He was surprisingly strong for a pale old man who looked like a retired English professor.

He stepped aside and ushered me into this small clearing within the greater chaos. There, arranged in a perfect circle, were eight safes of various heights, their combination dials facing the center. It was like a Stonehenge of safes.

“Not bad, eh?” He walked the circle, touching each safe one by one. “Every major brand. American, Diebold, Chicago, Mosler, Schwab, Victor. This one here’s forty years old. That one over there is new, hardly ever been used. What do you think?”

I did a slow 360, looking at all of the safes.

“Take your pick,” he said.

What, he wanted me to pick out a safe? So I could take it home, strapped on my back while I rode my motorcycle?

He put his reading glasses on again. He tilted his head so he could peer over the lenses at me. “Come on, let’s see you do your thing.”

My thing, he says. He wants me to do my thing. This man actually wanted me to open one of these safes.

“Today would be good.” He stood there in the green-tinted shade, finally taking his glasses off and letting them dangle from his neck again. I stood there. I didn’t move.

“Are you going to open one of these safes,” he said, speaking very slowly, as if to a simpleton, “or aren’t you?”

I went to the safe closest to me, one of the tall boys. It was as big as a Coke machine. The combination dial was a finely engineered machine of polished metal, like something you’d see on a bank vault. I grabbed the handle next to the dial and gave it an experimental pull. Yet more finely engineered metal said fuck you and did not move the slightest fraction of an inch.

“All right, now you’re joking around, right? Now you’re being a comedian?”

I looked at him. What on earth could I possibly do here? How could I communicate that this was all a big mistake? How could I make this man believe that I was sent here because of two absolute morons and that I was simply wasting his time?

A few more seconds of us both standing there, and at least the bottom line became clear to him. “You can’t open any of these, can you?”

I shook my head.

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?”

Hands up. I don’t know.

“I cannot even believe this. You have got to be fucking kidding me. They’re gonna send this kid over. He’s a natural, they say. An absolute natural. He’s the Golden Boy.”

He turned away from me, walked away a few paces, and then came back at me.

“You’re the Golden Boy, all right. You fucking-”

He stopped and seemed to be working very hard to contain himself.

“Okay. Count to ten here, huh? The Golden Boy ain’t so golden. It’s not the end of the world.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, put two fingers from each hand on his temples, and started rubbing in little circles. He took a few deep breaths and then opened his eyes.

“You’re still standing here,” he said. “Why is that? Are you seriously trying to make me have an aneurism?”

I took a step toward the door, not sure I could even find my way back through the maze.

“There you go! Now you’ve got it. You can’t open a safe, but you know when to leave. Give you credit for that.”

He pushed by me and led me through the lawn mowers and barbecue grills. When he opened the back door, we were plunged into darkness again, and I almost killed myself on the gauntlet of bicycles in the hallway.

“Graceful, too! What a bonus. I’m so glad you came to visit today.”

He hurried me through the television room and through the main room to the front door.

“Get your bike, Golden Boy.”

He held the door open for me while I fumbled with my motorcycle and then finally wheeled it outside.

“That’s right,” he said when I was finally on the sidewalk. “Get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.”

He closed the door behind him and that was it. A rousing success! It was hard to see with all the confetti and streamers flying around.

What the hell, I thought. If that was a job interview, I was kinda glad I hadn’t passed. I rolled the bike to the street and started it. Then I was flying up Grand River, honestly believing that I’d never return.

I drove right back to the Marshes’ house. I went in through the front door, went up the stairs. I knocked on her door. She was either out somewhere, or else she just didn’t want to deal with anybody right now. Even me.

I turned to go back down the stairs and saw her standing at the bottom.

“What are you doing?” she said. “Why did you come back?”

I went down the stairs.

“Where did you go, anyway?”

A pen, I thought. Paper. Why the hell don’t I carry them around with me?

“Michael, what are you doing for my father?”

I made a writing motion. Let me tell you.

“I probably don’t even want to know, right?”

I tried to grab her by the shoulders. No, not grab her. Just put one hand on each shoulder so she’d stand there and stop talking for one minute while I found something to write on. She pushed my hands away.

“I should have seen right through this,” she said. “I mean, I know he’ll do anything to get what he wants. But look at you. One day he’s trying to kill you. You have to break into the house at night just to see me. The next day, all of a sudden you’re his right-hand man. Invited to the family barbecue… You’re the Golden Boy.”

Again with the Golden Boy. Where did this come from all of a sudden?

“I was the prize, wasn’t I? whatever you’ve done for him, I’m your reward.”

Now’s the time, I thought. Time to speak. Make a sound. Anything. Do it right now. Just do it.

“Don’t you get it? He’s going to drag us down with him. Both of us.”

Open your mouth. Right now. Let it come out.

“I can’t be here anymore. Not one more minute.”

You stupid fucking mutant freak. Say something!

She tried to push past me. I grabbed her arm. For real this time.

“Let go. Please.”

I took her hand, lacing my fingers into hers. I pulled her through the door and out into the driveway.

“What are you doing?”

I took the helmet off the seat of my motorcycle and tried to put it on her head.

“What is this? Where did this motorcycle come from?”

I held the helmet out to her, waiting for her to put it on.

“I’m not wearing that.”

I threw it into the grass and got on the bike. I started it. I moved up to the front of the seat and waited for her. I didn’t even look back. I just waited.

Finally, I felt her climbing onto the back of the bike. I felt her hands slipping around my waist. Yes, I thought. If this is the only good thing I’ll get to feel all day… I’ll take it. This moment right here.

“Take me away,” I heard her say behind me. “I don’t care where we go. Just take me away.”

I knew I couldn’t do it yet. Not for real. Not forever. But for one day… a few stolen hours… yes. We could get as far away from here as this bike would take us.

I put it in gear and we took off down the street.

Los Angeles, Arizona

July, August, September 2000