The Clocks

Every moment of my life has been mediated by that “tick-tock” that keeps time with my existence. My parents always indoctrinated me to be punctual, always pointing to the hands of that austere tall clock encased in its wooden armor, while saying to me: “It doesn’t matter if they are soft or hard, the important thing is that they tell the time!”—as Dalí once said. And so I grew up, marching like a soldier, and I was happy; punctuality was always my great virtue, and I was the pride of my parents.

Since living on my own, I have tried not to forget the imperialist mustache [Dalí], and, should there be any benefit of the doubt, I can testify to the swarm created by my nearly three hundred clocks: some large with tenor voices, others small like the buzz of a mosquito; all enslaved by my obsession to slice up my time in the most efficient way. Each night they converse meticulously, and in the early mornings they are roaring birds pecking at my ears, wrapped in the delirium of dawn.

A few days ago, I saw a boy who steps out in the morning to smoke his cigarette and, while playing his King Crimson tracks, smiles at me as I pass. I tell him that habit will kill him, and he nods while staring intently at my shoes, while twirling his spider-like fingers. Anyway, sometimes I wish I had the time to sit down and tell him it isn’t necessary to be an excellent guitarist—but time is pressing, and the bus might leave me stranded if I slow my pace.

Once at the stop, it’s a different story: I am tormented by the idea of slipping up and missing the feeder bus—that “ambulant Guernica” that every morning carries me to the portal amidst shoves and jolting brakes. At times I think I will never make it, and just when my watch is about to shatter my hand, I’ve bought my ticket and wait for the J72, the proper name of that little journey that makes me doubt where I truly am in the city.

Among some unsuspecting passengers I slip through to grab a seat, managing to sit down just before the door slams shut and the ride begins. Beneath a cloak of indifference, I prepare to read something that might kill the anxiety shredding my fingers every minute. I return to the page where I left my bookmark, only to realize I hadn’t checked whether I’d boarded the right bus. I ask those nearby, but no one answers—it seems as though the entire city had gone mute.

In my reflections I try to observe, but the road shows no change or anything alarming; finally I decide to go back to my book. Yet with every line I find my concentration clouded by the thought of arriving late, accompanied by the image of that woman with black hair—the one I longed to kiss yesterday—or by Adelita’s coffee cooling on my desk. With such effort I prepared myself to see my beloved, to see her marble-like skin under photographic light, to see her little tie shine with its red and gray stripes; and me, arriving late.

At this point I can no longer read. I can hardly breathe, as the clock hands are sawing through my breath. Where am I? This damn place looks like downtown, but I don’t see the pool, nor 19th Street, nor San Victorino. I raise my eyes in another attempt to conquer one of those old buildings, but everything feels so alien; if it weren’t for some familiar traces of the city, I could say I had been robbed of time. But what was that treacherous drowsiness? I don’t remember. I don’t know if this is some cruel joke, or if I am the victim of a new alternate route. But this is over! I will not lend myself to this Roman coliseum.

I feel my hands start to sweat, and my coat begins to feel like the most terrible mummification. Suddenly, my clocks seem to have conspired and taken revenge for the ungrateful treatment I’ve given them; suddenly I go on dreaming and they have not yet turned their beaks toward me; suddenly I am still sleeping peacefully on the bus. I know it! Today I am more awake than ever. I don’t know how so many foolish thoughts could cross my head at the same time, and I feel as though I might drown in my own sweat. My eyes burn as if submerged in sea sand.

It seems everything is returning to normal and I sense that I will finally arrive on time—until my left arm went numb in response to my previous state. I tried to wake it with a desperate, convulsive motion, but failed. I cannot move, and on top of that I feel my clothes tightening more and more. I drag my gaze across the mangrove-like bodies of the people, but can see only blackish silhouettes, writhing desperately toward me.

For a second, the background noise dissolves into the air, and I experience a great lapse of relief that slowly intoxicates me. As I reconstruct each second, each minute, each hour, I understand why I never had the chance to kiss that woman; I understand that Adelita’s sweet coffee will indeed freeze atop my desk; and I finally understand the reason why that boy stared at my shoes.

I have to accept that, for the first time in my life, I valued arriving somewhere late. Without worry or haste, I turned my head to see the time on my watch—only to discover that those two tiny hands would never move again.