Pocket Watch
Every year they go to the Youngstown bar on the corner of Donahue and Eldridge. Every year they sit at the same table in the far left corner of the bar under an old sputnik chandelier and directly beside a red brick wall with a mounted painting of a ship traveling across an angry sea.
She says, “Do you love me?” And he smiles because he does and because she always asks this same question, every year, right after they sit.
“Of course.” He replies, and she asks.
“Why do you love me?”
“Because of your body, of course.”
And he winks, and she laughs.
“I’m serious. Why do you love me?”
And he looks at her and studies her face, scanning the freckles that rise and fall like sound waves beneath her left eye. Her nose which is small and flat, and something she is terribly self-conscious about, but that he personally loves, though there is no way to convince her of that.
You have to say that.
She always says, and he always replies the same way.
I don’t have to say anything, my love.
He scans her eyes, which in a certain light seem maroon, dark like a chestnut, but under the candelabra light bulb directly overhead, you swear they were a midnight blue. Dark like the raging ocean in the painting to her left. But that isn’t what he loves about her. Her features are beautiful, but they act like a spice does to a warm home cooked meal. They’re a wonderful addition, but they can’t mask something that tastes terrible.
“What I love about you,” he begins, “is that you live in a world within the world, but also in the real world. Your mind is like my home, yet it is as foreign as the crevices in the cut stone blocks along the Great Wall of China. You let me in just enough to know that you’re there, but not enough to penetrate the last barrier, for no matter how much we love, there still needs to be a spot only reserved for oneself. I love you because you love me, but you don’t need me. Need breeds dependency, and dependency breeds an unnatural fear of being left alone in a world that we feel we cannot navigate. You could navigate the harshest of storms, with or without me. The pain of losing me would not, in turn, blind you to your path because you set off on it long before we locked eyes. The path wasn’t created by us, it was created by you, and having someone lessen the load is a beautiful thing, but it never means that the shifted weight would crush you underneath. I love you because we’re here, a place we’re meant to be.”
She smiles, speechless. Her arms outstretch and her hands open, palms up. He traces his index finger along the lines before placing his hand in hers.
“Why do you love me?” He asks, and she smiles. "Because you say things like this."
“Easy answer,” he says.
"You’re an easy man”, she replies, and they lean over the small circular oak table and kiss each other.
"People aren’t the same,” she says. “They don’t love like the old poets.”
”Maybe not. Or maybe love moves on.”
”I don’t see love in here.”
She looks around and spots a young couple at a table by the bar. She points at a young man with short, curly black hair and the faintest hint of stubble strapped along his face from ear to ear. There’s a pretty girl in front of him with blonde hair down past her shoulders and a white top exposing bare tanned arms from her shoulder to her elbow, and on her forearm a tattoo of a tiny white arbutus flower.
”Let’s see how long it takes them to speak,” she says.
He replies, “it isn’t polite to stare, my love.”
She waves him off, and says, not like they’ll notice, anyway.
For ten minutes, no words are spoken between the young man and woman. They continuously scroll on their phones, small wry smiles rising momentarily before their mouths return to their natural dormant state. He takes small sips out of a golden ale in a mug, and she takes even smaller sips from her drink. They look too young to be in the bar, or at the youngest possible age to enter, and they’re drinking because they feel they should. They’ve earned it, yet they don’t enjoy it.
"See? There’s no love.” She says. “What would happen if I were to ask that girl who her favorite poet is? Or playwright? Or novelist? What would he say, for that matter?”
"I believe they’d ask who the hell you are and to promptly take a hike,” he answers.
And she laughs before mentioning that the servers never seem to notice them. “Is it because we’re tucked away in this small, dark corner?”
"Maybe. But the sooner they come, the sooner we must leave. I’d like to make the evening last a lifetime, if possible.”
Then he takes out an old pocket watch from his coat pocket and places it on the table.
“The watch that ages a man,” she says.
"Didn’t you just condemn the young couple for not loving like us dinosaurs?”
"Fair point,” she says, “but I condemn them for not looking into each other’s eyes and seeking stories and answers. And now I’m condemning you for your love of old antique watches. The way you stare at them can make a girl crazy.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh.
"Well, my love for antique watches trained me on how to seek out a proper woman.”
"Oh, did they now?” She laughs. “I’d love to hear this explanation with your foot forcibly inserted into that big old pretty mouth of yours.”
He winks at her, and she feels weak.
“Have you ever heard of Damaskeening?”
”Can’t say that I have. But I suppose you’re about to enlighten me?”
She says and places her hand just below her chin with just enough sarcasm in her interest to make Billy roll his eyes and tell her,
“You care, sweetheart. If curiosity killed the cat, then you’re running out of lives.”
"I care. Because you’re smart. You have a lot to say to the world and sometimes I wish you’d make a bigger effort to let that voice be heard.”
"Well, your ears are the only pair I’ve ever wanted, love.”
Then it’s her turn to roll her eyes.
"Well, how on earth did you speak before you met me?”
"I spoke only to the wind and the shadows on my bedroom wall. The ominous ones, I felt like with some lighthearted conversation, my mind would reorganize the shapes and turn them into allies.”
”Oh? And did that work?”
”Sometimes,” Billy says. “Now stop sidetracking me. Damaskeening is all about forging patterns. It’s embellishing the bridges of the watch movement.”
”I’m no nearer to understanding.” She says and sticks her tongue out just slightly.
”Patience.” Billy says and raises a finger before pressing on. “In the late 19th century, watchmakers created some of the most beautiful embellishments you’ll ever see inside of a watch. They were made by what are called rose engines, which could produce beautiful circular patterns much like those of a spirograph. And though the engine was capable of doing the work, you still needed to place it in the hands of a skilled watchmaker in order for the magic to happen.”
”And somehow this relates to us?”
”It does.” Billy says. “Because the rose engines are the space between the two of us. It’s basically free floating, waiting for someone to grab it and use it on the other. There’s beauty inside of us, and love is much like the damaskeening process. In your hands, the rose engine can display patterns of beauty that are inside of me, but only because it’s in the hands of the right artist. And I’d like to think that in my hands the rose engine can unveil the intricate beauties inside of you. But it takes time, patience and skill and, of course, never forget a healthy dose of luck.”
Then Billy opens up his pocket watch and the three-dimensional spirals dance across the movement brought on by the candelabra lights in the chandelier just above their heads.
She’s heard Billy tell that story more times than she can count, but it’s beautiful and the day she says no to hearing it, is the day she loses everything.
“Do you want to get out of here?” She asks.
“But the food hasn’t arrived.”
”I’m not hungry, anyway.”
”I guess, neither am I.”
They smile at each other and get up and exit the bar as the bell overhead dings. Still no one turns. No one cares.
Along the pier they walk as a light snow begins to fall, picturesque like a calendar. The type of snowfall that people who love snow or people who haven’t seen it before think of it. The kind that lands and doesn’t melt right away, yet it doesn’t accumulate to the point where within minutes you’re trudging through it, in need of snow shoes. The kind that illuminates an evening sky with a picture of white. There’s a breeze coming off of the water that’s chilly but not stark cold.
She places her arm around his, and rests her head gently on his shoulder. They start down towards the water along a gravel path that forms a never-ending circle, around a large body of water. It goes on for miles, how many, they’re not sure. But they walk along it, and on the edge are jagged rocks forming a layered barrier between the coldness of the dark water, and the heaviness of stone.
She stops. Billy says, “why did you stop, my love?”
And on the ground, in the frozen grass with a thinly veiled layer of snow, is something shining. She knows what it is before she approaches it, and when Billy’s eyes meet the shining object, he knows too.
She walks over and gets down on her knees. The wind is howling faster now, and her hair is blowing in front of her face. She picks up the small shard of glass. It’s about 3 inches long and 2 inches in diameter.
“It’s real, isn’t it?” She asks.
“I’m afraid so,” Billy replies.
And she looks over at the Youngstown bar and sees heart decorum forming an even bigger heart around the entrance. She sees the glass, the window where they were sitting only moments ago.
“What happened?” She asks.
“A bomb.” He replies.
“Why?” she asks.
“Terrorists, hun. A war. A way to get the people in power to listen has always been to hurt those without any.”
“On Valentine’s Day.” Billy nods his head.
“How old were we?”
“27, love.”
Then she gets up, and throws the glass back into the water, yet it doesn’t reach past the tall rocks on the edge. Billy puts his hand out, and she hesitates before placing hers in his. They continue along the path for some time, no words spoken, just the wind.
Billy hauls out his old pocket watch and tells her it’s almost time.
And she says, okay.
They walk through a heavily wooded area before coming out at a gate on the right side. The gate is tall and rusted. It’s heavy like steel, perhaps iron, and the two sides connect on top in the middle, and it says St Michael’s Cemetery. Behind is a marble statue of St Michael, the angel, the defender of faith.
They walk through and a fog climbs above their ankles but just below their knees.
”Why do you love me?” She asks.
”Because you’re my soul. My everything.”
”Not as good as before.” She smiles sadly.
”We don’t have much time.” He says. “Why do you love me?”
”Because you let me live out my fantasy when I need to, but you never lie.”
”And I never will.”
They reach two small stones placed flat in the cold dirt. There were once flowers here, but they’re gone. There were once people here, but they’re gone.
”Happy Valentine’s Day, love,” Billy says.
”Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Billy looks down at his pocket watch and looks up at her with a somber smile.
And they’re gone.
The wind continues to blow heavily, and a newspaper hovers through the winter air. On the front it reads.
40th Anniversary of Youngstown Bombing
It’s been 40 years since a bomb placed in the bathroom of the Youngstown bar went off, killing 12 people and destroying the infrastructure.
On Valentine’s Day, young lovers went out to have a drink and many lost their lives. It will forever go down as the darkest day in this city’s history. Owner of the Youngstown bar, Gerry Mason, reflects on the horror of the evening.
“I was a young bartender. Hadn’t been doing it for more than five years. It was a safe place in town. No one ever thought twice about something like this happening. I still get choked up thinking about it. There was this couple in the far corner of the bar. They came all the time, just talked and laughed. Young love, ya know? He used to bring an old pocket watch that his grandfather or something made. He’d show it to her all the time. And when the bomb hit, they were just gone. We searched through the rubble and found his old pocket watch. Still intact.”
Afterwards, Gerry believed the Youngstown bar, which was started by his father, James Mason, would never reopen.
“I didn’t think anyone would ever feel safe about the place again,” Gerry remarked. “But the resilience of these people is truly astounding. We worked throughout the entire year and were open a year to the day. Valentine’s evening, the following year, we welcome all the young lovers once again. It was really a beautiful thing. Like Springsteen says, everything dies, that’s a fact, but maybe everything that dies someday comes back, ya know?”
And although the tragedy will never be forgotten, the Youngstown bar has become, in part, a beacon of hope. An understanding that with the power of love, is the power to rebuild anything that’s been lost. All it takes is the right machinery, and the right people to operate it.