Malakas in America: A Short Story

The Gen X Travels

8 months ago

Malakas, they are everywhere! I have been finding them here in America, my home country on a regular basis. Quite a few are in our government, but that’s another story.

Ever since I learned the word “malaka” I have found it to be quite beneficial for me here in America. I love the word. No one around me knows what I’m saying and it doesn’t actually sound like I am cursing. The word slips from your tongue easily, has a bit of a ring to it and depending on the context it’s quite satisfying to throw it out there. And as in the story below, sometimes the replies are unbelievably priceless!

My oven broke down and needed a special part. After waiting a couple weeks for the part and the repair man the day finally came. The moment I opened the door I knew this was not going to go smoothly. The man appeared to be in his mid 30s, nice enough looking, polite, but he had an odor of one too many left-handed cigarettes about him, his eyes were bloodshot, he spoke slow, moved slow, and he just seemed to be one brick short of a wall. But I let him in anyway because he was pleasant enough and mostly I really needed my oven fixed. I mean, how hard could it be to replace one little part?

It did not take me long to realize this man was bestowed with blessings from the god Koalemos. He looked around my average size kitchen turned to the oven and said is this the oven? Once assured it was the oven, he set himself up ever so slowly. About 10 minutes later he searched me out to ask if I had a vice grip, said he hadn’t brought all his tools with him today. So being in a friendly mood and wanting my oven fixed I obliged, went to the garage and brought back a vice grip.

Fast-forward to about another 10 minutes and he bothered me again stating, “Ma’am I am going to need you to help me.” With a raised eyebrow I quizzically looked at him, “You want me, to help you? “Yes,” he replied, “ I need you to lie down on the floor next to me and hold the barrel of my cordless screwdriver on the screw while I hold the handle and push the trigger.” Shaking my head in disbelief I rolled my eyes and retorted, “well that’s not going to happen.”

He proceeded to work on the stove while I acted busy. After a bit, he stood up and said “Ma’am, you have a problem.” This time my voice raised a decimal or two. “I have a problem ?“ “Yes”, he informed me, “since you wouldn’t hold the screwdriver the scew stripped out. So now I have to order another screw. It will take about two weeks for it to get here.” By this time I was starting to get irritated. Lucky for him I had already had my coffee. I asked him why he couldn’t go to the hardware store for the screw, or better yet, search through the bottomless screw collection in my husband’s garage. Of course he mansplained it to me like I was the idiot, telling me in slow detail it was a certain screw he had to use which he could only get through the Bosch company.

Just as I was digesting this information and as if I wasn’t angry enough, he added, “Since I will have to come back again there will be another service charge.” “Oh hell no,” I angrily told him, “you seriously think I will pay another service charge because of your mess up? What are you? A Malaka?” The repairman stood a little straighter looked me right in the eye and proudly stated, “No ma’am, I am an American”.

Well, some could say that statement speaks for itself. Being an American, no comment. Beyond agitated I told him to get out of my house, called the repair shop and in another two weeks this man’s supervisor came out and fixed the oven in about 10 minutes. No charge. The first guy was the definition of Malakas in America.