Like Clockwork
Jun. 6th, 2021 11:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
feotakahariA short story
I wish I was afraid of fire. Fire has cachet. If there was a fire between me and the chintzy “Hawaiian” restaurant where I’m supposed to start my shift at 8:45 AM sharp, people would be screaming and running. Maybe I’d even get the day off. At the very least, I’d get to start my shift later.
Nobody ever understands when I tell them I’m afraid of clocks.
Leaving for the afternoon is easier. The department store opens at 9, so I can cut through there. I don’t have to pass by the antique clock and watch repair shop. I don’t even have to think about it. I don’t have to hear that ticking that I know full well is probably in my head, no one can hear anything over the sound of the mall radio blaring Christmas songs a month in advance, but I hear it anyway, ticking and tocking inside my skull--
Deep breaths.
I tell myself the owner is probably a nice person. It’s not his fault he likes clocks. But saying that doesn’t help. Then I tell myself to get going, because it’s not like Flava Flav is going to jump out and yell “boo!” That doesn’t help either.
One step, and then another. Keep taking steps, and you’ll be past this. Step, tick, step, tock, step, like a clockwork doll.
I’ll cut through the department store at 9. Maybe I can get away with being a few minutes late. Again.
--
Marc’s over at my place again. He’s complaining about his band’s vocalist. I’m doing him the courtesy of pretending to listen.
“--like Jacob thinks he’s the only one in this band who matters. Christ, we started this together! It was about all of us making it big, not just him!”
Marc’s not afraid of clocks. Marc’s afraid of heights and unlit alleys and bloody horror movies. Normal things. I like that about Marc.
“I love the man like a brother, I really do, but sometimes I want to tell him to cram it up his--” He takes a deep breath and lets it out.
“You already have my advice,” I tell him.
“Stab him with a sharpened drumstick?”
I only suggested that once. I was kidding. Mostly.
“Boot him,” I say. “Sage can sing. Maybe not well, but he can sing. Jacob needs an ego check. I’m sure everyone else will back you up.”
“Sage wants to give him another chance,” he says, like Sage--and Marc--haven’t given him too many chances already.
“Well, if you do go back to the drumstick idea, I’ll support you on that, too.”
“I’ll keep it in--shit, what time is it?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’ve got to go to work. See you later.”
I give him a quick kiss before he goes.
He told me once that he often loses track of time when he’s here. He said it’s because I don’t have any clocks to check. He doesn’t mention that anymore, after he saw how I reacted. That’s another thing I like about him.
--
I don’t think anyone involved in the creation of this restaurant was actually Hawaiian. But it’s not like there are a lot of places that will hire someone with work experience as spotty as mine. Whatever pays the rent, right?
Bus the tray. Clean the table. Wipe the spill on the floor. Bus the tray. Clean the next table. Efficient. Automatic. Like a ticking clock.
I force myself to slow down and take a breath.
I know full well the boss doesn’t think much of me. I heard him say once, when he thought I wasn’t listening, that he was surprised a “pretty little doll" like me would be willing to clean anything. But I’m NOT a doll. I checked, and I bleed red, so I’m probably human.
(Don’t be so shocked. You’d check too, if you were me.)
No, my problem is rhythm. I fall into old patterns, old traumas, cleaning to the tick and the tock in my head. Everything has to be spic and span, or else--
A customer is glaring at me again.
I started trying to wipe the table while he was still eating. I do that a lot, when I get lost in my head. I back away and clean somewhere else. Hopefully, he won't raise a complaint.
--
“I’m telling you, this one’s actually good!” Marc says.
I raise a single eyebrow at him. I consider myself a master of the eyebrow. It’s easier than talking.
“You-good, not just me-good,” he clarifies.
I press play on the video, and listen to the song. It’s not very good.
I’ve tried to get into punk music. Believe me, I’ve tried. Not just because I want to support Marc’s band, but because I want to enjoy something that’s loud and erratic and not at all like a ticking clock. But I still want rhythms, even if they’re different rhythms. I can’t put up with tuneless whining.
“It’s spirited,” I tell him. “They care a lot about corporate greed.”
I watch his face fall, and I pat him on the shoulder. “You can like what you like,” I tell him, “and I can like what I like. That’s okay.”
“I just want to share something with you,” he says. “Sometimes I feel like we barely have anything in common.”
“You share a lot with me,” I tell him. “You share your day, you share your thoughts, and you share your kisses. I love how you keep me grounded. That matters more to me than some song.”
For a moment, I swear I see his eyes narrow. But they’re back to normal before I can figure out why.
--
Cleaning. Busing tables. Moving erratically, fast steps and then slow. Tick-tick tock is different from tick tock. The rhythm feels more natural, and I lose myself in the work.
The guy at the corner table snaps his fingers. “Hey, I need a refill!”
“I’ll be with you momentarily,” I say, even and firm.
It was supposed to be “I’ll be there soon,” wasn’t it? I have so many bad habits in this job.
“It’s been a moment,” he says. “And a minute. And five minutes. So get me my refill.”
I’m not even supposed to be handling his table. “I’ll be there--”
“Just get me my refill, baby doll,” he says.
“I’m NOT a doll!”
I dropped the tray, and now there’s soda all over the floor. I try to clean it up, but the manager calls me back into the kitchen.
Too many complaints, he says. Hostility towards customers, he says. Not smiling enough, he says.
This is how I get fired from all my jobs. It’s as regular as clockwork.
“I’m not a doll,” I say quietly to myself as I walk out the door.
--
Marc’s waiting outside when I get home. “Jacob’s out of control,” he says. He doesn’t say it like he’s mad or frustrated. He says it like he’s discovered a fact and knows he needs to accept it.
I resist the urge to swear. “I’m sorry, Marc, but I can’t deal with whatever Jacob did right now. Today has been a really bad day. I’ll listen to this when I have more space in my head to think.”
“You think I always have space in my head to listen to your latest disaster?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the only one you talk to when things go wrong. I get that. So I try to listen even when I feel like screaming. Right now, I think I’m going to have to stop being friends with someone I’ve known since I was six. You’re the only person I can talk to about it who’d understand and isn’t personally involved, and it’s not important enough for you to care.”
“Marc, that’s not what I’m--”
The neighbors can probably hear us. We’re acting out of place, disrupting the ordinary rhythms of the day. I don’t even know why that matters anymore.
“Look, I have one more question, and then you can say whatever you want to say, and I’ll listen. You said you love how I keep you grounded. You said you appreciate that I don’t poke at the things you don’t like to remember. I’ve been listening, and you never say you love me. Or anything about me that isn’t about how I’m helpful for you. I know you don’t lie. Can you say you love me? Can those words come out of your mouth?”
Deep in my chest, a clock stops ticking and doesn’t start again.
I stand there in silence, and he looks away from me. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “I’m like your little Chihuahua. I bark at the things that matter to me, and you think it’s cute how my problems are so much smaller and less important than your problems. But they’re big to me, and real for me. And if they’re not real for you, then we have nothing to talk about.”
I don’t say goodbye as he stalks away. I can’t contradict anything he’s said.
I don’t even want to think about what my nightmares will be like tonight.
--
It’s three weeks later when I show up at Marc’s band practice. “Need a backup drummer?” I ask.
“That’s the first thing you have to say?” he asks me.
“I’m sorry I treated you like you didn’t matter. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I know I’ve been a terrible girlfriend. But I’m bad at apologies, so this is the best thing I could think of. Need a backup drummer?”
“I need anyone who can play music at all.”
Jacob isn’t there anymore. Sage isn’t either. It’s just Marc and . . . Kyle? Kenneth? Wow. I really haven’t been listening.
“I have two weeks of drum experience,” I tell him. “The tick-tock in my head was getting bad, and I wanted to see if I could replace it with tickety-tockety-ta-tickety. That’s good enough for a punk band, right?”
“That’s good enough, and I accept your apology. Hey Casey! Say hi to my friend over here!”
Friend. Not girlfriend. I can live with that.
Casey’s been politely pretending not to notice our drama bomb, but he looks in our direction now. “Hi to your friend over there,” he says. I like him already.
We segue into discussing their next song. My first song. With me on drums, Marc’s handling vocals for now. He can’t exactly sing, but whatever. It’s a punk band.
I beat my anger into the drums like a distorted heartbeat, and I know I’ll be okay.
I wish I was afraid of fire. Fire has cachet. If there was a fire between me and the chintzy “Hawaiian” restaurant where I’m supposed to start my shift at 8:45 AM sharp, people would be screaming and running. Maybe I’d even get the day off. At the very least, I’d get to start my shift later.
Nobody ever understands when I tell them I’m afraid of clocks.
Leaving for the afternoon is easier. The department store opens at 9, so I can cut through there. I don’t have to pass by the antique clock and watch repair shop. I don’t even have to think about it. I don’t have to hear that ticking that I know full well is probably in my head, no one can hear anything over the sound of the mall radio blaring Christmas songs a month in advance, but I hear it anyway, ticking and tocking inside my skull--
Deep breaths.
I tell myself the owner is probably a nice person. It’s not his fault he likes clocks. But saying that doesn’t help. Then I tell myself to get going, because it’s not like Flava Flav is going to jump out and yell “boo!” That doesn’t help either.
One step, and then another. Keep taking steps, and you’ll be past this. Step, tick, step, tock, step, like a clockwork doll.
I’ll cut through the department store at 9. Maybe I can get away with being a few minutes late. Again.
--
Marc’s over at my place again. He’s complaining about his band’s vocalist. I’m doing him the courtesy of pretending to listen.
“--like Jacob thinks he’s the only one in this band who matters. Christ, we started this together! It was about all of us making it big, not just him!”
Marc’s not afraid of clocks. Marc’s afraid of heights and unlit alleys and bloody horror movies. Normal things. I like that about Marc.
“I love the man like a brother, I really do, but sometimes I want to tell him to cram it up his--” He takes a deep breath and lets it out.
“You already have my advice,” I tell him.
“Stab him with a sharpened drumstick?”
I only suggested that once. I was kidding. Mostly.
“Boot him,” I say. “Sage can sing. Maybe not well, but he can sing. Jacob needs an ego check. I’m sure everyone else will back you up.”
“Sage wants to give him another chance,” he says, like Sage--and Marc--haven’t given him too many chances already.
“Well, if you do go back to the drumstick idea, I’ll support you on that, too.”
“I’ll keep it in--shit, what time is it?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’ve got to go to work. See you later.”
I give him a quick kiss before he goes.
He told me once that he often loses track of time when he’s here. He said it’s because I don’t have any clocks to check. He doesn’t mention that anymore, after he saw how I reacted. That’s another thing I like about him.
--
I don’t think anyone involved in the creation of this restaurant was actually Hawaiian. But it’s not like there are a lot of places that will hire someone with work experience as spotty as mine. Whatever pays the rent, right?
Bus the tray. Clean the table. Wipe the spill on the floor. Bus the tray. Clean the next table. Efficient. Automatic. Like a ticking clock.
I force myself to slow down and take a breath.
I know full well the boss doesn’t think much of me. I heard him say once, when he thought I wasn’t listening, that he was surprised a “pretty little doll" like me would be willing to clean anything. But I’m NOT a doll. I checked, and I bleed red, so I’m probably human.
(Don’t be so shocked. You’d check too, if you were me.)
No, my problem is rhythm. I fall into old patterns, old traumas, cleaning to the tick and the tock in my head. Everything has to be spic and span, or else--
A customer is glaring at me again.
I started trying to wipe the table while he was still eating. I do that a lot, when I get lost in my head. I back away and clean somewhere else. Hopefully, he won't raise a complaint.
--
“I’m telling you, this one’s actually good!” Marc says.
I raise a single eyebrow at him. I consider myself a master of the eyebrow. It’s easier than talking.
“You-good, not just me-good,” he clarifies.
I press play on the video, and listen to the song. It’s not very good.
I’ve tried to get into punk music. Believe me, I’ve tried. Not just because I want to support Marc’s band, but because I want to enjoy something that’s loud and erratic and not at all like a ticking clock. But I still want rhythms, even if they’re different rhythms. I can’t put up with tuneless whining.
“It’s spirited,” I tell him. “They care a lot about corporate greed.”
I watch his face fall, and I pat him on the shoulder. “You can like what you like,” I tell him, “and I can like what I like. That’s okay.”
“I just want to share something with you,” he says. “Sometimes I feel like we barely have anything in common.”
“You share a lot with me,” I tell him. “You share your day, you share your thoughts, and you share your kisses. I love how you keep me grounded. That matters more to me than some song.”
For a moment, I swear I see his eyes narrow. But they’re back to normal before I can figure out why.
--
Cleaning. Busing tables. Moving erratically, fast steps and then slow. Tick-tick tock is different from tick tock. The rhythm feels more natural, and I lose myself in the work.
The guy at the corner table snaps his fingers. “Hey, I need a refill!”
“I’ll be with you momentarily,” I say, even and firm.
It was supposed to be “I’ll be there soon,” wasn’t it? I have so many bad habits in this job.
“It’s been a moment,” he says. “And a minute. And five minutes. So get me my refill.”
I’m not even supposed to be handling his table. “I’ll be there--”
“Just get me my refill, baby doll,” he says.
“I’m NOT a doll!”
I dropped the tray, and now there’s soda all over the floor. I try to clean it up, but the manager calls me back into the kitchen.
Too many complaints, he says. Hostility towards customers, he says. Not smiling enough, he says.
This is how I get fired from all my jobs. It’s as regular as clockwork.
“I’m not a doll,” I say quietly to myself as I walk out the door.
--
Marc’s waiting outside when I get home. “Jacob’s out of control,” he says. He doesn’t say it like he’s mad or frustrated. He says it like he’s discovered a fact and knows he needs to accept it.
I resist the urge to swear. “I’m sorry, Marc, but I can’t deal with whatever Jacob did right now. Today has been a really bad day. I’ll listen to this when I have more space in my head to think.”
“You think I always have space in my head to listen to your latest disaster?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the only one you talk to when things go wrong. I get that. So I try to listen even when I feel like screaming. Right now, I think I’m going to have to stop being friends with someone I’ve known since I was six. You’re the only person I can talk to about it who’d understand and isn’t personally involved, and it’s not important enough for you to care.”
“Marc, that’s not what I’m--”
The neighbors can probably hear us. We’re acting out of place, disrupting the ordinary rhythms of the day. I don’t even know why that matters anymore.
“Look, I have one more question, and then you can say whatever you want to say, and I’ll listen. You said you love how I keep you grounded. You said you appreciate that I don’t poke at the things you don’t like to remember. I’ve been listening, and you never say you love me. Or anything about me that isn’t about how I’m helpful for you. I know you don’t lie. Can you say you love me? Can those words come out of your mouth?”
Deep in my chest, a clock stops ticking and doesn’t start again.
I stand there in silence, and he looks away from me. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “I’m like your little Chihuahua. I bark at the things that matter to me, and you think it’s cute how my problems are so much smaller and less important than your problems. But they’re big to me, and real for me. And if they’re not real for you, then we have nothing to talk about.”
I don’t say goodbye as he stalks away. I can’t contradict anything he’s said.
I don’t even want to think about what my nightmares will be like tonight.
--
It’s three weeks later when I show up at Marc’s band practice. “Need a backup drummer?” I ask.
“That’s the first thing you have to say?” he asks me.
“I’m sorry I treated you like you didn’t matter. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I know I’ve been a terrible girlfriend. But I’m bad at apologies, so this is the best thing I could think of. Need a backup drummer?”
“I need anyone who can play music at all.”
Jacob isn’t there anymore. Sage isn’t either. It’s just Marc and . . . Kyle? Kenneth? Wow. I really haven’t been listening.
“I have two weeks of drum experience,” I tell him. “The tick-tock in my head was getting bad, and I wanted to see if I could replace it with tickety-tockety-ta-tickety. That’s good enough for a punk band, right?”
“That’s good enough, and I accept your apology. Hey Casey! Say hi to my friend over here!”
Friend. Not girlfriend. I can live with that.
Casey’s been politely pretending not to notice our drama bomb, but he looks in our direction now. “Hi to your friend over there,” he says. I like him already.
We segue into discussing their next song. My first song. With me on drums, Marc’s handling vocals for now. He can’t exactly sing, but whatever. It’s a punk band.
I beat my anger into the drums like a distorted heartbeat, and I know I’ll be okay.
