“I am the Clockman and I present you with a very most wholesome welcome to my shop. I carry clocks and timepieces from every known corner of the world, and even some from parts unknown but soon to be discovered—I have thought of revealing those parts and claiming the discovery for the Clockman, but in doing so, I would risk losing my exclusive supply of never before seen clocks. And that my dear sir never would I risk, for I deal in clocks, not in fame or discovery.

“I am here to fulfill any and all of your temporal needs. There are some visitors, perhaps visitors like you, who never realized their forlorn desire for the clock. The truth, if I may be so humble as to pretend to know about truth in this topsy-turvy world where every huckster claims to be an expert in that most inscrutable of currency, is that everyone, and I mean every last person, from the tallest, oldest gentleman, to the chubbiest, most eye-curling baby, what they all have in common is that they all must have a clock. And, as chance, the most welcome of all beasts, has arranged it, there is a clock, one clock, a solitary clock, the, if I may be so bold, the clock for every person, including you, my kind sir, my gentleman, my very most welcome patron.

“Please, follow me through these doors and prepare to see the world as you have never seen it. For behind this very entryway you will find my most wholesome of domains, and in there, in my most secret of secret places, awaits your clock. For I am the Clockman and it is my honor, it is my duty, it is my most virtuous of pleasures to welcome you, most gentle of sirs, to the Clockman’s realm.”

Carl stared at the strange, small man in the red business suit. He didn’t know what to make of him. He wore yellow stage make-up over his eyes and his huge smile, not augmented by any makeup, had not left his mouth during his speech. Two large triangular puffs of hair shot out from the sides of his head, as if orange flames were sprouting from his ears. His face, reddened from not seemingly breathing through his entire presentation, held a final, joyous expression, and lingered unmoving and expecting.

Before the Clockman appeared at the storefront, Carl had been about to leave. Hanging over the closed doors was a simple, cardboard sign with the words “Clock Store” painted in broad white strokes. No address was displayed on the blackened door, but Carl knew that this was the right place. It was just not what he had expected. But now that the Clockman was here and he had come this far, he wasn’t about to give up without at least looking at the clocks. And the Clockman, if nothing else, was a cheery, if outlandish, character—almost unreal in his dress and speech.

“How could I resist such a welcome?” Carl said as he walked past the outstretched arm of the Clockman, which led toward the darkened double doors that opened into the shop. Carl felt a deep ticking vibration as he touched the door handle. When the door opened, the hushed vibration exploded as thousands of synchronized clocks ticked.

Carl had moved into his house nine-weeks ago, which was a day short of exactly eight months since his wife had walked out on him to move in with her podiatrist. After unpacking his moving boxes in his new house, Carl embarked on decorating. In the settlement, he had received all of the furniture from their previous house because, she later admitted to him, the podiatrist, a Dr. Phut, a name Carl still couldn’t believe was real, had decorated his lavish house with furniture imported from Tahiti and Maui. Furniture that cost much more than the stuff that Carl was able to afford. But Carl loved his furniture because his wife had purchased it. He had given her everything he could afford during their twenty-year marriage.

When the furniture arrived, Carl positioned it in the same location as it had been in their previous home, which he had sold as a condition of the divorce. During their marriage, she had reupholstered all of the cheaply purchased furniture with a beautiful flower print made up of pinkish and yellowish pastel colors. He lovingly repositioned each couch, chair, ottoman, and table in the same position as it had been in their former home. He spent hours pushing and tugging the pieces until their placement was as exact as his memory could recollect.

During the unpacking, he had found that the clock that had hung above the fireplace was broken. It still ticked and kept time, but its face, a cloudy glass face covered in dark, embossed numbers, had cracked. He searched through all the stores and malls for a replica with no success. He saw traditional, wooden clocks, modern clocks that he still wasn’t sure actually told time, grandfather clocks, and clocks shaped as cats and dogs with tails wagging. While he admired some of the clocks and wished furtively that he could buy them, he knew that none could replace the broken clock. Not one of the clocks touched that part of him that understood what it wanted, knew what was right for him. He gave up, until yesterday, when he found the Clockman’s advertisement in the weekly newspaper. It read: “A clock for every need; a clock for every breed; a clock for every disgruntled, disassociated, disbelieving, dismembered, distended someone. 415 Grandfather Road.”

Carl entered the store and was surprised to find himself in a bare room. The walls were whitewashed and illuminated by spotlights hanging from the ceiling, but except for the door, there was no decoration, no table, and no clocks in the room. The loud synchronized ticking of clocks seemed to originate from deep behind the walls. The sound grew louder as Carl approached the middle of the room.

“Not what one would expect of the Clockman’s store. Eh, Mr. Peterson? As I said outside, there is a clock, one clock, for every person. Even for you, Mr. Peterson. However hard it is for you to accept. You, who spent an entire life serving another only to be stepped on, grinded into the floor—if you would forgive me my pun, I share and respect your private pain, but I am and always will be a salesman who seeks the pretty tongue to entice the deal—and now to find yourself here, at this moment, this particular second, when freedom has found you, freed you from all of your past. Not what one would expect, Mr. Peterson? No. This is exactly what one would expect, exactly what you should expect.”

The white door shut behind the Clockman, and the door’s edges disappeared, leaving only a smooth wall visible behind the short man. The Clockman curled his fingers around his chin and studied Carl with a slight tilt to his head.

“My name, how did you—“

“Would you suppose the Clockman, master of all timepieces, traveler and proprietor extraordinaire, would not to know his client base? The hows and whys and whatfors are not important, Mr. Peterson. What I offer you—and it is an offer that I give neither lightly nor unkindly—is another chance, an opportunity to free yourself of your demons, of your poor decisions, and your white knuckles that grasp the past as if its escape would be the death of you.

“There are clocks and then there are clocks, Mr. Peterson. Did I not tell you that when you first entered my store? I offer you a clock, the very clock that would release you from your pains and unanswered expectations. I do not ask much of you. I only ask that you choose, Mr. Peterson. I know what my customers want, better than they do. But I cannot choose for them. I am only the salesman, the messenger, the enlightened showman—if you would once again forgive my flippant descriptions—that present my clients with what they most wish. I only ask that you take what you want, and I hope, for your sake, that you understand and appreciate your truest desire before you take what is not yet yours. After I have given you all that I have to give, you may ask nothing more of me.”

“I do not understand. What are you talking about? Do you have my clock? Do you know the one that I need, the one that is broken and now needs replacing? I will not ask how you know and I do not care. Show me my clock, Clockman.”

The small man took a deep breath and his smile left his face. His red suit appeared brighter against the white and he pointed to the wall behind Carl. Two clocks hung on the wall, both ticking in unison. An unbroken replica of the cloudy faced clock hung next to a beautifully carved cuckoo clock, the same clock that he and his father had carved when he was a child. His ex-wife had been spooked by the small, yellow bird that flew out of the wooden door every hour, and had thrown the clock away the first week of their marriage. And there it hung, next to the clock that had been his wife’s first purchase during their marriage. Now that Carl looked closely at it, the cloudy faced clock was shoddy, probably purchased at a discount store. The cuckoo clock had taken him and his father over a year to craft, and had been their final woodworking project together.

“Time ticks, for me more than most people, Mr. Peterson. As I said, each person only has one clock. I never said that that clock was the same clock throughout that person’s life. Take your clock off the wall. I have no more charming words or pitches to prod you this day. Choose and go about, Mr. Peterson.”

Carl walked to the hanging clocks. He turned and watched as the Clockman opened the door and held it open. The ticking of the clocks behind the walls quieted until Carl could hear only the ticking of the cuckoo clock and the cloudy-faced clock. He reached toward the cuckoo clock and touched its finally crafted finish. He caressed the cool, metal finish of the cloudy-faced clock, leaving behind moist fingerprints. He opened the little door on the cuckoo clock and petted the small, yellow bird hiding behind the door. He traced over the large numbers of the cloudy-faced clock’s face.

Carl took a step back from both clocks and smiled.

“So, you have decided?” the Clockman said.

“Yes,” Carl said. He looked at the clocks one last time and turned toward the door. The Clockman stood aside as Carl passed through the doors into the unknown evening.

***

Short, short story idea: a conversation with a person who uses large words incorrectly through an entire conversation. The other person doesn’t realize the incorrect usage and is overwhelmed and impressed by the conversation.

That was a hard story to write. I think it would have been more interesting if I had discussed his relationship with his father at the beginning, but I had no idea where the story was heading in the beginning. Thanks to a short day at work, I spent many, many hours on this story. I spent a lot of that time editing (I know, I know, I’m not supposed to edit, but I was procrastinating actually taking the story somewhere).

I have two more days of training for the Marathon. The past six or seven days (maybe it’s less—I’ve completely lost count), have been the most productive writing I’ve ever done. Even if I don’t make it through the Nanowrimo story—and there’s a low probability of that; especially with all the smack talk that Chuck has been laying down—this has really inspired me to write more. The last three days in particular have shown me the difference between real writing and metawriting, as Chuck so aptly named. I definitely like real writing better. Can you believe my low consternation output for today?

I’m a little over my 2,000-word count for the day, so I’ll call this finished.

Word count: 2,065; writing time: lots, 3+ hours; caffeination: tall mocha (Tully’s)+Vanilla Coke; editing time: lots; after edit word count: 2,082.