The Old Mechanisms Remain

Hold on.

This old thing stopped again.

There.

Listen.

Tick.

Tick.

Marvelous.

My grandfather's clock.

Not a valuable clock.

Not one of those clocks people write insurance forms about.

Just a clock.

Wood cabinet. Brass pendulum. Chimes that arrive whenever they please and seem surprised by it.

Another dispatch from Scott Evers. Read for you by Geezer III.

I like winding it.

Always have.

Something reassuring about machinery that refuses to hide its intentions.

You pull the door open.

Take hold of the key.

Feel the spring tightening.

Feel the resistance.

The whole arrangement negotiates with you.

Modern life doesn't negotiate much anymore.

Most things arrive sealed shut.

No ticking.

No gears.

No opportunity to ask what exactly is happening in there.

This thing still has the decency to show its work.

Ah.

Phone.

— fred.

— yes.

— i'm winding the clock.

—

— because that's what one does with a clock.

—

— no.

— i don't want a digital one.

— fred.

—

— because then i wouldn't have a clock.

— i'd have a number.

—

— yes.

— that's different.

There he is.

Ladies and gentlemen, my brother Fred.

A practical man.

If the moon fell out of the sky Fred would immediately begin calculating where to park around it.

—

— what.

—

— yes.

— the kids too.

— i've been thinking about that.

—

— intoxication.

—

— yes.

— that's a perfectly good word.

—

— alright.

— dope.

— if it makes you happy.

Funny thing.

Every generation finds something.

Whiskey.

Cannabis.

Television.

Politics.

Religion.

Work.

Money.

Love.

Everybody's got a version.

Something that helps the hours pass more agreeably.

—

— no no.

— i'm not judging.

—

— what i'm saying is don't think you're transparent, fred.

—

— i'm serious.

—

— this younger generation.

— they've got an eye for it.

—

—

— people's little modes.

— the way they walk into a room.

— the way they laugh.

— what they're trying not to say.

—

— maybe i'm wrong.

— probably.

— but they seem better at reading people than we were.

—

— maybe that's legalization.

— maybe it's the internet.

— maybe they've simply spent more time watching one another.

—

— all i know is i wouldn't bet against them.

—

— yes.

— i know you think you're fooling everybody.

— i wouldn't be so sure.

- ha.

— exactly.

— that's what a guilty man sounds like.

—

— because i don't think people are after intoxication.

—

— relief.

That's different.

I think people spend most of their lives trying to become somebody else for a little while.

Just for an evening.

Just long enough to stop carrying themselves around.

—

— yes.

— dangerous.

— i know.

—

— i'm getting there.

The clock chimes.

Wrong hour.

Completely wrong.

Wonderful confidence.

I leave it.

Seems rude to correct something that old.

—

— here's what i've been wondering.

—

— what do people actually want.

—

— no.

— really.

What.

Not what they say they want.

Not what they buy.

Not what they vote for.

What do they actually want.

—

— yes.

— belonging is part of it.

Of course.

People want their people.

Their place.

Their corner of the world.

Funny thing.

Everybody wants peace but nobody wants weakness.

That's where we get ourselves tangled up.

We spend fortunes preparing for danger.

Building walls.

Buying locks.

Making enemies.

Trying to feel safe.

And somehow nobody feels particularly safe anyway.

—

— what.

—

— thank you.

— i thought it was pretty good too.

—

— don't worry.

— it's not going to my head.

The clock's ticking behind me now.

Steady.

Patient.

Like it's got somewhere to be.

—

— hold on.

Goddammit.

Pinched my finger.

Little blood.

Nothing dramatic.

Just enough.

Funny thing though.

The second I saw it I knew something.

—

— what.

—

— no.

— listen.

I haven't had meat in weeks.

Weeks.

And the second I saw that little drop of blood I knew exactly what I wanted.

—

— yes.

— steak.

—

— because i'm an animal apparently.

—

— no.

— that's the entire explanation.

Steak.

Medium rare.

Maybe potatoes if civilization continues cooperating.

The old mechanisms remain.

That's what I'm saying.

The clock ticks.

The body ticks.

You can cover them up for a while.

Pretend you're something modern.

Something sophisticated.

Then one spring tightens.

One gear turns.

One drop of blood appears.

And suddenly some ancient part of you places an order.

—

— yes.

— that's probably the dumbest thing i've said all week.

—

— alright.

— say hello to everybody.

—

— no.

— don't do that.

—

— goodbye fred.

There.

Listen.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.