Being one of the most fertile men in Mexico and reproducing at such an exceptionally rapid rate, I’ll occasionally make a minor parenting mistake. Like losing track of one of my many offspring.
Of course, we always find them.
But every now and then, there’s some collateral damage. Bruised knees, bumped head, a bit of crying here or there. No big deal.
However, things went differently on one lovely Thursday evening in Guadalajara, Mexico 🇲🇽
Locked.
After a lovely dinner, I got my two-year old out of her highchair and set her on the floor.
She’s been giggling all dinner, in a silly mood for whatever reason. Far preferable to her normal “terrible twos” disposition we’ve grown accustomed to.
But instead of going to play with her toys or bring me a book to read with her, she bolted to the master bedroom while laughing and quickly locked the door.
JA JA JA JA
“Ok, silly girl. Twist the knob the other way to open the door.”
She’s still laughing.
“Silly girl, you need to unlock the door. Twist the knob the other way, baby.”
She slowly stops laughing. I can hear her fiddling with the lock, but she can’t figure out how to unlock it.
She replies, “Daddy, I can’t do it!”
There’s a bit of stress in her voice.
“Daddy, come get me!”
Even more stress in her voice now. She’s two and starting to panic that she’s locked in a room and can’t see mommy or daddy.
I try to calm her down and see if she can open the door. It’s not happening. A panicking two-year old and a tricky lock is not a good combination.
So I have mi vieja call a locksmith, while I try to keep our little one calm to no avail. She’s crying – screaming for mommy and daddy – in a full-on panic.
The locksmith says he can get to us in 60-90 minutes.
Mierda!
That’s not gonna work. We’ve got a panicking toddler crying bloody murder already. Who knows what could happen with her alone in that room for over an hour?
I try to pick the lock myself, but it’s not happening. The door is way too thick to try and slam through it.
After a quick think, I decided to go down and talk with our security guards. See if the maintenance guy is still on call. Or if there’s anything we can do here outside of waiting for the locksmith.
Luckily, I gave our security guards cash and cigars for a little Christmas bonus, so the guard on duty immediately sprang into action. He called the maintenance guy to meet us at my apartment, grabbed a screwdriver, and went upstairs with me.
Always treat your security guards well in LatAm.
Hammer.
It’s me, the security guard, and the maintenance guy. We’ve got some screwdrivers, a sledgehammer, and a drill.
My daughter is still locked in the room screaming bloody murder at this point.
The maintenance guy goes to work taking the outside of the door frame off with the drill.
Then he begins to wedge the screwdriver into the door and bang it with the sledgehammer.
It’s loud.
It sounds like a full-on construction site inside my apartment. And I’m yelling at the top of my lungs to my daughter:
“GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR, HONEY! I DON’T WANT YOU TO GET HIT BY ANYTHING”
P.S: I, Jake Nomada, am fighting back. I am The Latin Hammer™ now.
This scene continues for about 15-minutes. Progress is being made. The door completely and utterly destroyed. We’ve almost got it open.
Then I hear the doorbell ring…
I remember that my good friend and neighbor was supposed to be headed over to work on a little project we’d put together.
Incorrect.
I opened the door expecting my buddy to be there. He was not. Instead, it was my next-door neighbor, whom I’d never exchanged words with prior. Never even rode the elevator with him.
He looks a bit pissed, rightfully so I suppose. In a gruff tone, he asked me:
“What’s going on here?’“
Just as I’m about to respond, I notice something. He’s holding what appears to be a loaded gun in his right hand.
Uhhhh…
It takes me a brief second to gather my words, my ability to speak in Spanish dwindling by the millisecond:
“Welllll…my daughter locked herself in the bedroom and the maintenance guy is trying to break down the door so we can get her out.”
He glances in, sees the maintenance guy, makes a grunting noise in response, and goes directly back to his apartment.
I lock the door and go back to check on the progress. Mi vieja asks who it was. I told her it was the neighbor.
“Was he mad or something?” she asked.
“Yeah, he had a gun. I don’t think he was pleased” I replied.
“WHAT?!” She was shocked.
So was I…
Fast forward another 10 minutes or so and we get the door open. My daughter is still crying, still panicking.
I pick her up and console her. Her mom hugs us both. She slowly starts to calm down.
Uncomfortable.
I heavily tip the maintenance guy and security guard for their help. But the gun is still on my mind. I’m uncomfortable.
It’s uncomfortable having someone with a loaded gun at your front door when you do not have a gun.
So I decided to ring the neighbor’s doorbell and say sorry for the noise. Try to keep the peace and shit. Make sure he’s not pissed as hell.
Because this neighbor has a private driver that doubles as a security guard. This neighbor has multiple luxury cars. This neighbor has exceptional taste in prepagos — from what I’ve seen. This neighbor is…well, I’m sure you can guess his profession.
I ring the doorbell.
He answers.
He’s still got the loaded gun in his right hand as he opens the door. Thankfully, he sets it down on a table and steps outside.
“Hey, my bad about the noise. The locksmith couldn’t get here for over an hour, so we had to get the door off somehow. She’s two years old and was panicking.”
He smirks, “No worries. The noises were just worrying me. I didn’t know what it was.”
Which in his defense is quite valid. If I was hearing drills, hammers, a man yelling, and a child screaming next door, I’d probably go check-in too.
Just probably wouldn’t bring a loaded gun.
We shake hands and all seems well.
Confusion.
I didn’t sleep much that evening, nor did mi vieja. The tension from the evening’s events was palpable.
In all honesty, I didn’t know what to make of the situation.
Should I let it slide? Do I overreact and freak the f*ck out?
Two things kept running through my mind…
First being, I didn’t know the motivation behind my neighbor’s actions.
I don’t know the guy. We’d never interacted before. Then he brings a loaded gun to my front door. While my kids are in the house.
Was he mad and the gun was his way of threatening us to be quiet? Was he worried someone was trying to break into his apartment through my wall? Did he think something bad was happening to my family and he was being neighborly?
I hadn’t a clue.
Second being, he still had the gun in his hand when he opened the door at his place. Was he pacing around his apartment for 15-20 minutes holding the loaded gun before I rang the doorbell? Was he pissed off or was he paranoid?
Again, not a clue.
I decided to ask the security guard who helped us what he thought, as I hadn’t told him about the neighbor bringing a gun.
He laughed, “Oh him? He’s all talk, he threatens to kidnap me at least twice a year.”
Not exactly helpful.
In light of all this, I decided to call my Mexican lawyer, who has helped me through numerous situations south of the border.
I explain the whole ordeal to him, We chat for a bit, examine the situation and he delivers his verdict:
“Move out of that apartment as soon as you can!”
