By James C. Clar 

As soon as Saul saved $5.00 or $6.00 in can and bottle money, he schlepped over to the Akropolis Restaurant and had two or three cups of coffee and a piece of cherry pie. It made him feel like a king, or at least like a member of society again. Theo, the owner of the joint, understood what it was like. He, too, came to this country with the kind of hope and the kind of work ethic that was born only of utter desperation. Saul would trade places with him in an instant but, of course, that wasn’t possible. Saul had exhausted all of his luck decades ago when, as an eleven-year-old boy, he escaped from the killing fields of southern Poland. After that one sudden gush of good fortune the well had run dry. His unaccountably long life had been a series of catastrophes ever since. He sometimes wondered if it had been worth it. 

“How’s the coffee, Saul?” Theo asked. The proprietor’s apron was stained with grease and sauce. “Is it hot enough? I’m using a new machine today.” 

“It’s wonderful, as usual.”

“OK. Just holler if you need anything else.” 

Saul watched as his Greek friend walked slowly away. It was then that he noticed the woman and the young boy seated at a table across the dining room from him. They paid him no attention whatsoever. Or at least they pretended not to notice him. It was alright, Saul was used to being studiously ignored. In a land of plenty, the old and the indigent were rendered nearly opaque. Nonetheless he clearly observed that they were upset about something. The woman, Saul assumed she was the boy’s mother, kept dabbing her eyes with a napkin. The child sat with his head sunk on his chest. Remarkably, a thick chocolate milkshake sat untouched on the table in front of him. 

Ten or fifteen minutes later, the mother and child paid and left. Glancing at the spot they had just vacated, Saul noticed a small golden object, smooth and round, which they had obviously forgotten. He got up and, with some difficulty, crossed the room. As he drew near, he could see that it was an antique pocket watch. Its case was pitted and tarnished. Saul didn’t need to pick it up in order to determine that its movement had long since stopped working. Despite its condition Saul still recognized the quality of the workmanship. It reminded him of the watches and clocks that his father had repaired in the shop he owned before they had taken it all away from him; a victim of whatever particular “-ism” happened to be in vogue at the time. As a very little boy, Saul would sit on a stool and watch in amazement as his ‘tata worked. 

Picking up the watch, Saul returned to his seat. He unfolded a napkin and placed it on his table. Using the blade of his knife, he pried the back from the timepiece and exposed an intricate network of springs, flywheels and cogs. He blew forcefully two or three times. He became short of breath in the process. With a toothpick from the little silver dispenser that sat next to his pie plate, he began carefully extracting dust and dirt, the detritus of the ages, from the tiny surfaces of the mechanism. Saul turned the watch over and tapped the case lightly against the tabletop. When he was finished, he replaced the back. Pulling out the stem he set the time and began to wind. He was rewarded by a soft, rhythmic ticking. The old watch still needed thorough cleaning and oiling. Saul knew that without further attention it probably wouldn’t continue to run for long, but he was proud of his makeshift efforts nonetheless. 

Saul had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t noticed the small boy and the woman return. They were standing next to his booth. 

“How dare you,” the woman sputtered without preamble. “That watch doesn’t belong to you. It was my father’s and when he went into the hospital he gave it to my son for safekeeping. We buried him this morning and now this. Some old wino tries to steal it. You should be ashamed!” 

Saul didn’t even bother to respond. What would have been the point? All that the woman saw was an unshaven old man with yellow teeth wearing a tattered coat. Besides, he’d concede to her the grief that so obviously consumed her. Saul had been there, done that. The woman reached down and quickly snatched the watch from the table and handed it to her son. She turned on her heel and, taking the little boy’s other hand, headed for the door. 

Theo had watched the encounter from across the restaurant. He had wanted to intervene but refrained from doing so out of respect for Saul’s dignity. He opted instead to nod sympathetically toward the older man and raise his hands, palms up, and shrug his shoulders in a gesture both of resignation and understanding. 

Meanwhile, the woman and child reached the exit. Before passing through the door in his mother’s wake, the boy held the watch to his ear. Looking back over his shoulder at Saul, he smiled. Saul waved discreetly in response then finished his pie and took one last sip of coffee. He was looking forward to becoming invisible again. 

                                                                      *   *   *

James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more congenial climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has been published on Freedom Fiction Journal, Antipodean Sci-Fi, The Sci-Phi Journal, and The Collidescope.