First Contact

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. I was having a smoke in our backyard when I noticed our septuagenarian neighbor hacking and hammering about the dead mango tree trunk (uprooted by milenyo some six months ago), for some fire woods, I guessed as much. He looked up a few minutes after he became aware of my presence, made some remark about the handsaw he was using, and promptly went back to his labor. I thought to myself, what the hell, went back into our garage, took out one of my dad’s saw (the one used for cutting metals) got back to the old man and let him use it instead, and for the first time in eleven years we’ve been living in this small village, I am actually having an actual conversation with a stranger.

He didn’t look senile at all (he was wearing a gold necklace with a pendant as big as my thumb – which probably cost as much as my two months’ salary), and I was actually impressed with the almost professional handling of his tools – a skill that can only be attributed to years of experience, remarking to myself that he must be someone who closely worked with his hands. He tried the saw that I handed him for a few minutes, smiled and politely gave it back, telling me he’ll just stick with his (a small one that looked like a child’s toy, one that comes with a plastic hammers and pliers). I sat beside him and listened for half an hour as he tells his (relatively trivial) life while watching in semi-amazement the dexterity and precision (though missing the chisel stump with his hammer a couple of times, he had clean chops most of the time) he displays with his tools despite being sixteen years senior of my own father.

So I sat and smoked and listened while he tells about his thirty-three years in investigation service in the now defunct (I only assumed) Metrocom; about his adventures with some Gen. Montoya and his wife; about his chisel and his old handsaw (which some airhead borrowed and used to saw through iron nails – he found out from the iron filing left in the blade…investigation officer indeed), and a good place to have them re-sharpened; about things that I would have forgotten about the next day. I listened, and found myself developing a bit of respect, and in a way, love, for the old man.

Three Marlboros and a bag full of wood later, we bid our farewells. I went back to our house, put my dad’s saw back in his box, had three slices of pizza, rode my bike out and watched the sunset, and wrote.

I never got to ask the old man’s name (though he’s been living in the house across the street for some time now), but there’s still a good ten feet of log left off the mango tree, though. I doubt that will be the last of our little tête-à-tête, and maybe next time, I would try to actually sit down and get my hands dirty on that old mango tree, get to know more about General-frigging-Montoya, and find out what the hell makes his old tiny handsaw better than ours.

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