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Time Keeper (Part III)

I hadn’t really thought it through; was I running from something, or towards something? What was I setting straight, again - time? I could always go back, I hushed, turning the radio louder to drown out the lingering doubt. I relaxed into my whim and found myself wanting to be as far away as possible, not just in the next town, but in the opposite corner of the map. So I drove, and life unfolded with a purity I didn’t know existed.

Life on the road suited me, weeks passed, then months, and I had yet to grow bored. After just enough driving to make me tired, or just enough distance to change the scenery, I’d come into a town and find a place to stay for the night or two - or longer, if it was a big town and the rooms were cheap. I avoided cities for the most part, they seemed dangerous and charmless, I wanted to stick with the people I knew, the people that looked to the wide expanses of Earth or the kindness of their neighbors for answers.

I’d treat myself to a nice dinner, a warm bath, maybe a movie on cable. I’d dance in front of the mirror, or go for a walk through the town’s weary little heart, tracing the footsteps of so many before me on the worn concrete slabs of sidewalk. I’d open my case of trophies and marvel proudly, under the phantom eye of my father, at the time I had mastered, all these gold and silver rimmed faces staring back at me with the same answers, told by their faithful hands and repeating numbers. You could always rely on time, I thought, it was the one constant in a sea of change.

Later, when the evening was just picking up its momentum, I’d slip on my dress, tease my hair and paint my lips. It became automatic; a fluid succession of postures like a performers ritual for a nightly show. With a final glance in the mirror I’d head into the evening air, like an addict looking for a fix, anticipating greedily the rush of a new score.

Hotel bars were a favorite of mine, fellow travellers always had a story to share, and I always had time. I would pretend to be a working girl, or a college girl studying acting, or English, or a secretary or nanny, depending on the night or the mood or the man. I’d ask questions, guessing about their lives, their stories, what was real and what was fiction. I liked to believe we were all actors, selling stories about ourselves, painting happy lives and jobs and marriages, giving the good parts and forgetting the bad. That was the best thing about being strangers, about meeting new people; we didn’t have to be ourselves.

Some nights, if I was feeling particularly brave or if the town seemed particularly alive, I’d take my chances with multiple grabs, moving from bar to bar, or even just man to man in a crowded bar. I had to be careful, of course, but the drunker they got, the easier it was. I drank, but only enough to keep up appearances, to play along. I was playing a dangerous game, I realized, and enjoyed the control that came with a clear head. No room for sloppiness, I thought, trying to make Dad proud.

I kept my growing collection with me for a while, cases full of neatly labeled watches in the truck of my car. I would toy with them obsessively, finding comfort in their company. First fifty, then a hundred, then two, I tried to stay close to them all. It was sweet for a while; each watch carrying some memory, labeled with the date, the city, and the owner’s name, sometimes even a brief story on the back of the tag if it was a particularly memorable night. Then my savings ran out. I panicked at the thought of going home, I hadn’t thought about what was next, but surely, this wasn’t the end.

to be continued…

The Man from at Night (Part II)

Story starts here.

I phoned him a week later, curious about the second and third floors of his first floor shop, display cases and shelves built into the crannies of an old Victorian-era home. 

"Hi, it’s Lana, from the Journal," I began.

"Oh, Lana, hello again, what can I do for you?" He was pleasant and seemingly undisturbed by my persistence.

"I’m curious about your building, for another project actually, that I’m researching about old Victorian-era homes" I lied, again enjoying the comfort of stolen authority. "Do you mind if I ask, do you own the building?"

"Actually, no, no I don’t. Haven’t heard from the owner’s in years, to be honest. We settled a lease deal years ago when I moved in the space, well geez, that was, ten, twelve years ago already. They had planned to renovate and rent the upper floors to their son, but after the first few months I haven’t heard or seen anything of them."

"Really??" I delighted. "How interesting. So you don’t have access to the space?"

"Well, they did leave me a set of spare keys in case of an emergency. The back hallway is locked with a padlock, but I never bothered to go see for myself." I could hear the echo of talk radio in the background.

"Hmmm.." I paused, unsure how forward to be in this situation. Surely nothing for a paper would require access to the building, but he seemed to share in my curiosity. "Perhaps I could come by and check it out?" I dove straight in. What’s the worst that could happen, he’d say no?

"Well?"

"I need to take photos for the piece, I’ve visited a few other homes in the neighborhood, documenting the state of decay or preservation, you know, mouldings, ceiling tiles, fixtures. You’d be amazed how little regard some people have for the historic beauty in these buildings." It was cheap, tugging on his antiques-loving heart strings, but it was worth it.

"Sure, why not?! I haven’t seen them in years, and if all you want to do is take some photos I don’t see the harm in it. Gotta admit, I’m kinda curious myself." His voice piped with honest enthusiasm.

"Great, that’s wonderful," I grinned, "when is good for you? I can come any day, but the light will be best earlier or later in the day," I wasn’t sure if that was true, but it sounded right.

"How about tomorrow morning then? Shop opens at 10, I could meet you here at 9?"

"Perfect."

to be continued…

Time Keeper (Part II)

Years went by, along with high school, odd jobs. I spent some time waitressing, then bartending. I lifted a few more pieces along the way; each time watching myself from above like an angel, freeing another watch from another wrist.  I felt as if I had an obligation to these relics of time, to save them, cherish them, to give their sweet little hands and numbers, so faithfully counting the passing of time, the respect they deserved.

Dad never came back, but I was here, still waiting for that pocket watch he promised all those years ago. I could still see that golden orb, the warm, magical glowing from the palm of his hand, and I could still feel that empty yearning. When he came home I would show him my collection, tell him my stories, how I had ‘owned the time’ just like he had said. It would be our secret. He would tell me I did good, and everything would be better.

—-

I realized one night, while laying in bed like I always did, watches draped between my fingers, fondling my trophies as I imagined Queens fondle their jewels, that I was still here, but why? What was I waiting for? Waiting? Time is the greatest resource he insisted, and here I was wasting it! It was a test – and with the force of ten thousand regrets I realized: that’s why he left. It sank down my throat, moving tears and nausea and sweat in its wake. A sickening clarity washed over me, and so it became truth - My Truth. I had been tested and I was failing. I had to get my time back. That’s why he left.

So it began. I didn’t have plans to speak of and my current bartending gig wasn’t anything to brag about, so I set out to reclaim my time. I was more experienced now; I knew how men worked, I knew how to be a woman and I knew how to use it to my advantage. I had a mission now, and I worked as if I had an audience. He probably had been keeping an eye on me this whole time.

I made it a game; not unlike a hunter I set out amongst the woods of men, seeking an easy wrist and a wandering eye. I became present in the moment where I had once let go; I did it intentionally, thoughtfully. The hunter and the hunted, I thought with a renewed appreciation for the pastime I once dismissed with disgust; so this is why they like it so much. It was a feeling of power, of pride, and of control. I liked being in control.

—-

I made a costume of my performance - my camouflage to suit my prey, I thought, with increasing pride at my guile. Always a tight little dress, color to suit my mood – sometimes red, sometimes black, my favorite was blue, a deep rich shade that was so thick it made me feel like I was swimming. It brought out my eyes, they always said.

Lips painted, eyes smoky, heels up, and curls in my long, blonde hair.  It was me against these men, against their assumptions, egos, needs and desires. It was the one thing I could take - their time, and somewhere in me I was sure they deserved it.

I started with local bars, but realized quickly I would have to keep moving if I didn’t want to raise any suspicion. I packed my necessities, cashed out my savings and, on a slow sunny Sunday, not unlike the spring morning that started my obsession, I set out down highway 49. 

to be continued…

Time Keeper (Part I)

It started innocently enough, as I suppose most things do, with Dad’s ‘own the time’ echoing in my young ears with the gravity only a child would impose on three simple words. He said it with such assurance, and with such frequency there could be no doubting the sanctity of my actions - I was answering to a higher power.

The old man at the corner store liked to chat, yammering on about the weather, or farmer Bill’s poor crops or some other nonsense that made absolutely no difference to a 12-year-old girl from the yellow farmhouse. He stopped me on my bike that tall Sunday, so full of sunshine and the coming of spring everyone, especially the dogs and the birds, seemed quite delighted. 

His old skin bagged around his neck, chuckling loosely as he spoke. I traced my eyes through his well meaning banter, smiling as politely as the next, but eager to get on with the glee that confounds the first day of spring, and then I saw it; the shimmery plated links of his wristwatch gleaming from under his coat sleeve. They seemed to reach out to me as if they were prisoners, locked into this man’s lonely life, asking me if they could come home. 

No sooner had I seen the pretty gold watch, and I was watching myself from above, reaching over, sweetly - taken over by some presence or impulse I couldn’t identify - I flashed my newly painted nails in front of his eyes, and unhinging the timepiece before he had found the right compliment for my pink and purple polish.

 —-

Dad had this big shiny pocket watch; it looked like magic to my curious eyes. I would stare in awe as he flipped its shiny gold mass around in his palm; it looked so smooth, so heavy - so important. ‘Own the time’, he said, ‘you gotta own the time. It’s the only way to get ahead, it’s the most valuable resource you’ve got.’ He promised someday, when I was old enough, I could have one of my own, and I yearned dearly for that day to come.

“When I grow up I want to be the keeper the time!’ I would announce proudly to anyone who asked, and often times even when they hadn’t. I mistook their patient smiles for envy; envy that their own children weren’t as profound as I, and relished in the thought of being the first to be declared The Keeper of Time.

Dad had left that summer, mom said she didn’t know where to in the kind of way that made me believe they were keeping a secret. I decided he was out on a mission, on work - procuring more time in a way only adults understood, and probably finding me the best pocket watch which he would give me as soon as he came back. He was sure to return any day now, and when he did, boy would he be proud of me. Here I was, just 12 years old - I was almost grown up and I had already mastered the most important lesson: I owned the time. 

—-

Mom found that gold plated watch in my jeans pocket weeks later, but I insisted with a ferocity too dramatic for the situation that I had found it, and with some suspicion she deflated and handed it back. I held that watch so greedily, so tightly against my chest, heart pounding, I thought I might break it. It felt powerful, the cold metal case, a satisfyingly smooth firmness under my fingers. I slept with it; I took it to school, I fondled its smooth tight ridges, letting the links fold loosely over my knuckles as I tangled it between my fingers. I imagined it was my secret power and I held it greedily away from the peering eyes of my friends.

to be continued…

Temporary Royalty

She caught a glimpse of herself in the hotel lobby, not expecting the expansive hallway to be reduced to a mere reflection of where she stood. Disappointing, she thought to her other self, backlit by a crystal chandelier and wall sconces, their light falling down the mirror’s surface like moonlight on a river. Each fixture had a place more reserved than her own transitory presence; they lived here, always wishing at themselves in the mirror for some sort of drama to punctuate their otherwise flaccid days. 

She took that moment with her reflection as if they were strangers, lined in the rich gold and burgundy that saturated the place like a palace. My temporary palace, she thought with a pleased turn of her lip, for the temporarily royal. She realized with a quick breath the freedom that stood before her, the opportunity for a new beginning rolled through that moment. I can be anyone I want; it tickled invisible tears to her eyes - if only I had someone to celebrate with, she lamented. Surely, I can find someone. 

The elevator announced its arrival with a comforting bell, rattling open and presenting its glowing interior for her entrance. Others shuffled by, but this carriage was hers alone, playing along with her temporarily royal daydream. The bellhop followed, a stout man with a smiley, red face, directing her luggage cart along and pressing the glowing ‘42’.

Once inside her mansion of a suite, safely deposited with belongings and a grateful nod from the tipped smiling man, she danced. She ripped off her coat and flipped off her shoes and danced and danced and danced, recalling the ballet she had once known as a child, passe-ing and plie-ing around the sofas, along the windows that overlooked the vast sea of concrete and streets and all the invisible faces.

Collapsing onto the bed and adjusting the belt that cinched her dress tight to her stomach, she breathed a relaxed sigh of relief. 

Still Sunshine

She toed from the bedroom, through the house and out to porch as quietly as she could, folded on the edge of the concrete stoop, half awake in the pine scented morning. Wrapped tightly in her pale blue robe the night’s wetness pooled by her feet, dancing with the rays of sun that yawned through the trees glittering the dew.  

They had arrived late in the evening, but she could never bare to be in bed much past the dawn. Back home it was the nights that held her captive, but here, the silence so complete it belonged to the birds and the stirring in the trees, she had to be a part of it. 

When she was little she’d be on this stoop with her Barbies and Kens and play endlessly in the estates and bays of the lawn. She could still see the empire that once was, Barbie’s penthouse, the long drive to Ken’s, the shopping mall in the crook of bushes. 

"Coffee’s ready!" called from inside.

The old screen door creaked and slammed with the same metallic stretching. Long fissures of cracked paint tore canyons across its surface, weathered by the years.

Rings of steam trailed her dance to the kitchen, leaving a series of tiny clouds on the dark wood floors.

"Thanks!" she said to the windows, anxious for the warmth of the day to invite them outside. 

"How’d you sleep?" He asked over her shoulder. 

"Amazing, you? I always sleep like a baby out here." She stayed, back to the kitchen, hands wound around the white porcelain mug, admiring the bay windowed view of the lake. 

"I’m used to the noises of the city, it’s hard to deal with all the weird creaks and howls out here." 

She freed herself of his grasp and moved close to the window, closing her eyes momentarily and leaning her weight into the frame, still staring into the sun’s near blinding reflection on the placid lake, wishing at once to be a part of it. 

"I’m going to grab my laptop and work for a little, is that okay?"

"Mmmhhmmm" she mumbled. He was already down the hall,  the familiar flop of his slippers trailing away.