Rebel without a cause

 

On Wednesday night, I stayed behind the bench longer than usual. Nothing beats the most productive hour of the evening - half past seven, when the city slowly falls asleep. Around eight, as it was time to call it a night, I was still roaming through the junk box, looking for a "dollar deal" for tomorrow’s premium subscribers. And there it was: a perfect candidate. An old Citizen Diver, still ticking. With a massive scratch on the case - which, thirty years ago, rendered it unsellable. “I reckon I can polish this one in less than fifteen minutes!” I exclaimed loudly. “No, you won’t,” a voice replied. I was quite sure the staff had left two hours earlier. I looked over my shoulder, but there was no one in the office. “Don’t you dare touch me! Put me back in the junk box!” said the Citizen. “Worry not, mate. In no time you’ll be as good as new,” I replied. “Leave me alone, I am sovereign. Besides, you are not a qualified Citizen repairman,” said the watch. “Listen, you shitter, I am a third-generation master watchmaker, and you are a worthless piece of junk. You may be worth a dollar - but not yet.” Swiftly, the Citizen was subjected to a buff. But only a second later, it flew away from the spinning wheel, hit the ceiling, then disappeared into the darkness under the bench. I arrived home tired and worried. That stupid shitter could have hit me right between the eyes. Now, you may say this is all nonsense - watches can’t talk. Fine. But hear this. The next day, I arrived early. I had completely forgotten about the incident. But then I remembered that I still needed a bargain to feature. The moment I pulled open the drawer with pocket watches, I heard another voice: “Herr Hakko, we need to talk!” There were more than fifty watches in that drawer, but I knew exactly which one was complaining: a 1940s German field piece, a Grana, with a loud escape wheel. “What do you want now? I am busy! Keep it short!” The usual stuff. He was complaining that he didn’t want to be in the same drawer with 'asiaten'-  Seiko Railway pocket watches. “I want to be placed in the middle of the display case, where I deserve to be! I am not just an ordinary pocket watch - I was built for Wehrmacht!” Yes, the delusional self-grandeur stuff I’ve heard so many times before. “No way. In this shop, all watches are equal. Your glory days are long gone - you’ll remain where you are.” “On display, to be seen and heard! I am built to last forever!” he demanded. “You can’t go on display. Your radium hands still glow in the dark, you are a radioactive hazard. A danger to customers. Toxic to everyone. But he wouldn’t listen. With a swift swing of the Bergeon case opener, I snapped Grana’s balance staff. My shop. My rules.