The Cerrajero

My old Toyota key finally wore out this afternoon, in a parking lot run by a one-armed man from Veracruz, across from my dermatologist’s office in la Zona Rio.

Phone calls and a short wait later, a cerrajero (“key-maker”) roared into the lot driving a diesel-belching Rabbit, his young daughter, Salvadoran apprentice, four toolboxes, and three cellphones (a TJ staple) in tow.

Key whittling is the safe-cracking of trades. The cerrajero strained for inaudible clicks, wrenched open my driver’s side door panel, popped off the lock mechanism, and shaved a new key by sight –carefully eyeing to ensure all the locking parts didn’t “flotar” above the appropriate line. He labored like a heart surgeon. I was mesmerized. The key slipped in like butter and the ignition lit.

In the 3-hour interlude, I learned 3 peoples’ life histories, shared admiration for bochos (VW bugs) and Belizean weed, gave quick tips on greywater reuse, and shot the breeze about potholes, politicians, and government corruption. These are the days when I love Mexico the most.