The End of Time: 06:51:27

Just over two weeks ago, on a Thursday, my watch stopped working at precisely 06:51:27. I noticed that it wasn’t working properly at around 06:45. It then took approximately another hour-and-a-quarter to make its 6-minute way to its end.

To say that tragedy had befallen me would be an understatement. I was more lost than any tardy man searching for free parking on a downtown street ever has been. That I’m only getting to this post now should be an indication of how time has become lost to me.

I’ve had this watch for the last nine years, almost to the day. My dad bought it for me while on a cruise with my mom for her 50th birthday. That is how much he loves me. Or, that is how much he hates that I am always consistently late.

I wore the dead watch on my wrist through the Thursday. In the evening, I ventured to Yorkdale Shopping Centre, or Hell.

Why do I always park nearest to the entrance closest to the perfume section of the HBC? What sort of person is fashionably inspired by walking into a wall of untamed olfactory wilderness? I couldn’t even see the glittering watch collection behind the tornado of scents.

Eventually, with, presumably, only an hour before closing time, I found the watches. I was prepared to spend upwards of $300 to replace my watch, but I ended up walking out of the store with a $60 Timex that is unbecoming and less than sartorially modern. And, it ticks. It’s only redeeming quality is that it sufficiently keeps time.

My watch runs on light. It slows by only two minutes every year. It is a combination of digital and analogue timekeeping that perfectly bridges our modern world. It works so well when it isn’t not working.

I’m dependent on my watch. Even though much of my life runs on bell times, my watch is my compass. It is my lighthouse in the darkness that is the unawareness of passing time, despite the fluorescent hands having lost their nightly glow years ago. It’s my only defence against my feeble grasp of time.

I’m befuddled by folk who go through their days without a wristwatch.

I was so distraught by the loss of my watch that I phoned my father while driving to the mall to ask for his advice. When he didn’t answer, I called my sister. She told me that I likely wasn’t going to find anything in my price range. When he called me back, he told me to buy a cheap watch and get mine repaired. After walking out of the mall with my cheap watch, I phone my mother. She told me that I should wait until my father arrives (tomorrow morning) before going shopping for a new watch. She, correctly, understood the gravity of the situation, reinforcing what I already knew: I wasn’t going to be able to survive with a $60 watch, and that I need a decent timepiece.

My father is coming tomorrow to visit me for the next eleven days. I phoned him yesterday to check in with him. I called him again today to ask if needed me to pick up anything for him. He drinks tea that is a cacophonic concoction of spices and herbs, only understood by those whose palates have consumed 65 years worth of food. My main concern secret agenda was which of his watches he is willing to give me.

He’s bringing me two to consider. He’s also bringing two perfumes because I don’t have any. One for the morning and one for the evening. I have hair gel, so he’s going to leave his at home. The man still has his hair. Ladies, how’s about them genes?

The man still has his hair. Ladies, how’s about them genes?

I get to keep only one watch. One is a watch I gave him as a gift I bought during my first road trip in my first car, and the other is one he bought for me while visiting during my convocation which I refused on account of the fact that I had my watch.

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