by Barry Levine
Married, middle-aged, blind white male seeks a demure, comfortable talking watch. Black, white, silver, gold; it doesn’t matter. I’m seeking qualities that run far deeper than surface color.
Before you respond to this ad, you should know that you would be my everyday watch. I have a sleek Seiko tactile watch that I put on along with my public visage. I wear it on my arm just for show. Oh, it can keep time. But it’s fragile, high maintenance, and doesn’t respond very willingly. I have to pry her open, grope her cold, unbending hands just for a glimpse at the time. She’s good for show, but can’t meet the demands of everyday, workaday life. I need a comfortable, dependable talking wristwatch which will accompany me throughout the days of my ordinary life; through rain and shine, the warm breezes of summer, and the chill cold winds of winter. I need a talking watch that doesn’t come with an owner’s manual as thick as a telephone book, and that doesn’t have more buttons than an ear of corn has kernels. I need a talking no-frills, friendly, pleasant little watch which will respond willingly to my every touch of her time button.
So, you ask, how I’ve come to the point where I’ve put my pride aside and placed a personal ad? Settle yourself in, and pour a cup of tea. It’s a long and heart-wrenching story.
Oh, I’ve had talking watches. My wrist is no virgin to the voices of telling time. But, my first love, my lost love, eludes me. She was a talking Seiko. She was bilingual, easy to set, comfortable on my wrist, and almost seemed to know before I when I wanted to know the time. Her time button was no mystery. It just sat there, at the lower right corner of her face, just waiting to respond to my touch. She was black, sleek, with a leather band. Oh ... that leather band of hers! I ache just recalling her smooth leather band which, over the years, had conformed perfectly to my left wrist.
We were made for each other. I wore her proudly for years. Then, it happened. A moment in time which I have so often yearned to take back. I was foolish. I made a mistake borne of a momentary lapse in judgment. And it destroyed our beautiful relationship in the blink of an eye. I’ll never be able to forget that fateful moment on White Water Lake in Wisconsin, on the pontoon boat, wandering a bit too close to the edge, and falling overboard. I was fine.
I climbed back into the boat, and, so wrapped up in my own folly, failed to notice what happened to that lovely little Seiko’s voice. It wasn’t until we were back on the dock when I, as I had done thousands of times before, absentmindedly placed my right index finger on her little time button. She sputtered something to me. I could barely discern what she was saying. So, beginning to panic, I pressed again. Her sweet voice was so low I could hardly hear what she was trying to say to me. I put my ear next to her face, and she voiced her last words to me. Softly, barely audible, she said ... and I’ll never forget these last words of hers ... she said... Gosh! I can hardly recall this without a tear in my eye. This is painful! She said to me ... “The time is five twenty-five p.m.” Can you believe it? There she was. My sweet, brave little Seiko. All but drowned, and still trying to tell me the time. Now, frantic, I pressed her button again. Nothing. Not a peep. She was gone.
Upon returning to Homer Glen, I rushed her to our local jewelers. I busted through the door, one hand on my dog’s harness, the other cradling my lovely little talking Seiko. I didn’t notice who else might have been in there. I made my way to the counter, breathless, and shouted for Dave the jeweler. “Dave,” I called. “Dave, I’ve got an emergency!” Dave came running out from the back room. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Dave, I’ve drowned my little tiny talking Seiko,” I sobbed. He said, “Let me take a look,” as he reached for her. “Careful,” I said. “Be gentle.” I hovered over him as he began to open her back, constantly admonishing him to be gentle, be careful. Finally, he looked up at me and said, “Barry, go home. There’s nothing you can do for her here. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.” Wiping my tear-stained face on my shirt sleeve, I said, “Okay. But, call me just as soon as you know anything.” He replied, “I promise, I’ll call. Now, go home, and try to relax.”
I reluctantly went home to begin the vigil by the phone. I paced the floors, waiting, wondering, chastising myself for that careless move aboard the pontoon. Finally, the phone call came in from Dave. I could tell immediately that the news wasn’t good. His voice was somber and joyless. “Barry,” he said. “Are you sitting down?”
“Dave!” I screamed into the phone. “Just give it to me straight, man!”
“Barry, there was nothing I could do for her. She was too far gone by the time you got her in here. Believe me, I tried. You know I tried.”
“I know,” I breathlessly uttered. “I know you tried. I’m not blaming you.” Then Dave said, almost sheepishly, “Barry, do you want me to order another talking Seiko?” Mindlessly, I said, “I guess so.” And hung up the phone.
I honestly don’t know how I got through that night, tossing and turning, dreams of anguish piercing my sleep.
The next day, Dave called. Something more was wrong. What? “Dave, what is it?” “Barry, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ve called every distributor I know.”
“Dave,” I implored, “what are you trying to tell me?”
“Well, Barry, it seems that they no longer manufacture that wonderful little talking Seiko model. She had a pretty hefty price tag, and the market just wasn’t there.” There was a thunderous silence that fell between us over the phone lines.
It was all I could do to utter “thanks,” and I slowly, distractedly hung up the phone. What would I do?
So, there’s my story. I’ve gone from one tawdry little wrist tryst to another. Always searching, always longing, but never finding.
Oh, I’ve had talking watches since ... many of them. I’ve had fat ones, skinny ones, silver, gold, black and white. I’ve worn metal bands, leather bands, stretch bands, bands with clasps. I’ll admit here, in the intimacy of these pages, that there have even been times when I’ve succumbed to the temptations of that cheap cube clock which just sits on the corner of the kitchen counter, waiting for a blind man in need of the time.
And don’t talk to me about Radio Shack’s talking watch. Been there, done that. She’s no better than the rest.
And that rooster! Who the hell thought of that one? Was it supposed to be cute? Was it supposed to be attractive? Who wants an emulation, on his wrist, of a dirty, possessive, ornery, horny, foul-mouthed, shrill-sounding foul with an ugly hat?
I'm convinced that the committee that engineered that rooster watch is the very same committee responsible for the existence of cummerbunds, tongue piercings, and old men wearing Speedos.
So, if there’s a demure, sweet, reliable, dependable, sturdy, little Seiko-like talking watch somewhere, please let me know.