When he worked downtown as a glorified clerk, James did so in what was really nothing more than a temporary make-work project hurriedly put in place for arts graduates by a provincial government embarrassed by its overspending on universities that had churned out battalions of useless ‘unemployables’ ill-suited to a brave new digital world of technical and professional specialization. James Singleton Crothers, B.A. (Hons. First Class), M.A.,(Comparative Literature) would spend his idle moments, of which there were then many, exploring unfamiliar downtown streets of the provincial capital. He did this during the time he was not surreptitiously reading fiction at his desk, or pretending to write his own novel, doodling on office paper, making daisy chains of paper clips, or using his waste basket as a hoop on a filing cabinet into which he projected balled-up paper from his chair. His boss was a genial absentee most of the time, and the office staff minded their own business. It was a good life, James felt, but he knew it could not last. And such was, eventually, to be the case.
It was during one of his frequent extended lunch hours that James noted his watch had stopped, not that it really mattered to his employer, or even to James, but he was fond of the watch. He wound it up, shook it, and discovered it had unaccountably gone to sleep, and could not be roused. A passerby told him it was ten to three, and as he had the good fortune to be passing a doorway imprinted with “Jacobs, Watchmaker: Please Walk Up” on its glass surface, he went in, up a grimy staircase apparently little-used, and along a dingy corridor to an open door into a cubbyhole of an office where a little old man sat behind a battered, worn glass display case, bent over his work, with a magnifying eyepiece screwed into one eye. When he looked up, the eyepiece remained in place, and its owner appeared to be annoyed that a customer had interrupted him. An impatient gesture with his head was oddly reminiscent of Admiral Nelson at Copenhagen, with the telescope to his blind eye claiming he could “see no signal.” Yet the watchmaker’s other eye, a startling blue, regarded him with kindly interest.
“What can I do for you, young man?” The accent was German, the tone warmly solicitous.
“My watch has stopped, and I can’t get it to go. I hope it’s not overwound.”
Mr. Jacobs took the Tissot Seastar from him with reverent gentleness. “A beautiful watch.”
“Yes. It was a birthday present. From my father. Twenty years ago, when I was a child. Probably too good for me then.” Mr. Jacobs searched his face, as if expecting more disclosure. “My dad brought it back from abroad. I’ve worn it ever since. I mean, since he died.”
“I am so sorry.” He sounded as if he was in some way responsible. He bent his head in respect. “Wearing it will remind you of your father. He will always be close to you, ticking on your arm like a heartbeat.” He smiled. It was an invitation to friendship.
