The Watchmaker

The watchmaker peers into a magnifying glass, his large bulk leaning forward and naturally unsmiling face in a frown. The small shop is quiet, its glass display cases - all with NO LEANING! signs prominently posted - could use a dusting. A cat sleeps atop a cluttered shelf and multiple time pieces tick tock steadily. Time passes more slowly here, it seems, there is a feel of the past in the musty air, a leathery smell of watch bands and oil. There is no cash register, no computer, no flashing lights or neon. An ancient wall mounted telephone, black with a rotary dial, presumably connects to the outside world but I've never seen it used, never heard it ring and there are no tell tale fingerprints on its dusty surface.

There are other signs on the wall and propped up on shelves - NO CREDIT CARDS, MERCHANDISE LEFT OVER 30 DAYS WILL BE FORFEITED, CHILDREN NOT ALLOWED, WARNING: ATTACK CAT ON DUTY. Looking at the sleepy old tabby, I doubted this last but you never know. I wait patiently, knowing from experience that small talk is not welcomed here. No one will ask how I'm doing or invite me to have a good day. This is no social crossroads establishment, conversations are held in low, muted tones and limited to the business at hand. The watchmaker looks up at me indifferently.

Broke, he says. Fixable? I ask. Not worth it, he replies with a shrug and hands me back my ten dollar Walmart watch, purchased for it's oversized face and numbers, both of which are kind to my old and tired eyes. Knowing it would be pointless to pursue the conversation, I tell him thanks, and make my exit. Predictably, there is no response.

I could take offense at this entire encounter, could take my business elsewhere but not everyone is blessed with social skills and bright smiles. I know what it's like to be broke down, used up, and all out of nice - so even though I don't know his name, nor he mine, I do know that small talk won't fix the watch.