The Pocket Watch

Older than most of my readers, her hair was graying, and her dress was long out of style. She seemed frail, perhaps timid—she'd surrendered her place in line twice, quietly shuffling back to the end. When she stood before me, I'd signed two dozen books; the little bookstore was empty. Though she seemed vaguely familiar, I couldn't quite place her. I said as much.

"Oh," she said, her face reddening. "I didn't think you'd remember me. I'm Linda." Lowering her voice, she glanced side to side for anyone listening. "I was the duty nurse at the detox center when you first came."

"Ah, I do remember." Little snippets resurfaced. "Not that first day—I was in pretty rough shape—but later. Your daughter had a baby, her first, I think. You wanted to see her after work. When the cab came, you couldn't stuff all those mylar balloons into the back. We tried to help— did more harm than good. How is your family?"

"Oh, they're fine… you have a great memory!" She was beaming now, evaporating ten years from her face. "Back at the center, you're one of our biggest success stories. When I heard you'd be here for a signing, I just had to come pick up your latest book."

"This one's on the house." I pulled the top volume off the stack. "How would you like it signed?"

"You're too kind… Can you make it out to the center, then? They'll be thrilled!"

She paused as I scribbled on the frontispiece.

"Your generous donations help a lot of people." She hesitated, pursing her lips. "You write so well, especially about the unfortunate… it's always made me wonder about your story. Before you came to us, that is."

I reflected briefly before answering.

"I woke up in an alley one night. Drunk on my ass, stinking of urine and vomit. I couldn't find my watch to see if anyplace was open to get a bottle.

"For whatever reason, my foggy brain snapped back to thirty years before. I was fourteen. Dad was a mean boozer. I'd split whenever he tied one on, running the streets all night. A homeless man had passed out behind a dumpster in the wee hours, so I rifled his pockets. He had an old timepiece on a chain, a railroad watch—ancient history, like maybe 1800s? It wasn't running, but looked pretty cool.

"I cleaned the insides with lighter fluid and got it working. After some polishing, it looked new. I kept it until I needed some bread for weed. I sold it to a guy and his wife who ran a jewelry store in the neighborhood. A few days later, I got high, and I wanted it back. I'd spent the money. I cut the wires on their alarm, breaking into their store from the back. I stole the watch and left through the front.

"They boarded up the shop the next day. Somebody found the door unlocked and cleaned out the place. The business never opened again—no insurance. I felt terrible but kept the old timepiece and forgot everything else.

"It must've been eating away at me. I landed a good job and got married. Two kids. Then I started drinking. I couldn't remember hitting my wife or the boys, but I felt tremendous guilt when I sobered up. I'd make promises and apologize. We divorced; my work laid me off. Downhill from there. Can't blame the watch—alcoholism is in my DNA—but still…."

"What made you decide to get help?"

"Waking up in that dark alley, I couldn't stop thinking about my missing watch, that couple, or their store. I stumbled around to find a bottle. The church steeple across the way cast a shadow across my path. It pointed at a jewelry store with a wall clock in the front window. I swear, it looked exactly like that antique watch. The detox center was next door. I took it as a sign. I sat down in the doorway and fell asleep. I was hurting for a drink that next morning, but I figured you could make the aching stop, so I went inside."

"I'm glad we could help you."

"I wouldn't be here if not for you and the others. Literally…"

Smiling at the pun, I pulled out my ten-year AA chip and rubbed it with my thumb.

"Superstition, I suppose, but I haven't worn or carried a watch since I got my first of these."

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