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February 20, 2006
Locks, Keys, and a (Still) Physical Plant
Upon arriving at work this morning, I tugged ineffectively at the Writing Center door. For one of the first times in its existence as a gateway to superior grammatical and semantic structure, the door was locked. But, I was ready. After all, Physical Plant* had deemed me responsible enough to own a key to this hallowed hall of learning. I jingled my keys importantantly. Unfortunately, the door refused to be impressed; my key did not, by any stretch of the imagination or exertion of personal strength, fit the lock.
[Excursus] The bolder ones among us may have, at this point, marched confidently over to Physical Plant and indignantly demanded a new key. I, however, am strangely insecure in my ability to use keys. I spent much of my girlhood trying to reconcile the fact that I turned the key away from the doorjam to open our house door but towards the doorjam to open the car door. Or something. The whole lock-key-turn-open relationship never standardized itself enough in my psyche. After five minutes of standing at the Writing Center door, however, I decided that a jaunt up to Physical Plant was entirely justified. [/Excursus]
It took some persistence, but once at the Physical Plant office, I convinced the nice man that no matter what the official label declared, my key did not work. After some careful comparison with the almighty key database he agreed that he needed to cut me a new key and ushered me into a nearby workroom. I was expecting an imposing, whirring key cutting monster. Instead, my friendly Physical Plant employee reached into a box and pulled out a metal contraption that stood about as high as an old fashioned typewriter, but with half the width. He tucked a blank key into a slot and then turned a large, numbered dial on the contraption's side and pressed a lever. 9. Punch. 7. Punch. 1. Punch. Tiny golden bits of metal clinked onto the table. 6. Punch. 0. Punch. 6. Punch.
"Now I just need to stamp it," he told me. He retrieved two small, shallow boxes, each containing neat rows of what appeared to be miniature chisels. He picked out the "H" stamp, poised it carefully on the key head, and then knocked its head smartly with a hammer. Each letter and number in the key's identification stamp was similarly imprinted, one by one, with an echoing report. "This should work," he said confidently, handing me my new, shiny key. This one, I'm happy to say, worked flawlessly.
Does your college or employer eschew technological key-cutting advances in favor of personal craftsmanship? Mine does, and I find it strangely delightful. Two points for Physical Plant.
* I know they call themselves "Facilities Management" now, but you can't make clever 1980's pop song puns with that name. "Let's get Physical (Plant)" remains a fond memory.
Carefully Dramatized Life Accounts | By elissa | 02:08 PM
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Comments
I must admit you have recalled fond memories of mine from freshman year practical service... I had the honored job of running that key cutting thing for countless hours of physical plant slave labor... thanks for the reminder :-) It actually was quite fun.
Posted by: Rebekah at February 20, 2006 04:27 PM
I didn't know that making keys was your way of serving the greater community and keeping operating costs down! ;) I'm tempted to go back and ask Corey if I can make my own key next time.
Posted by: elissa at February 20, 2006 05:13 PM
