Excerpt: The Passage Of Time

The day the old man died was not markedly different from the days that surrounded it.
From the perspective of the ancient stone, wood and cobbled bricks that surrounded the cooling corpse, it was perhaps not so ordinary, not in the context of so many years. It was only the condition which had come to be seen as ordinary, by the short lived, short sighted creatures that moved around inside its walls and passed by along the cracked sidewalk outside, too intent on the momentary clicks and clacks of their individual foot falls to notice the small details of the city around them. It was that strange intermediary time of year, when fall had come and gone and was still, tinted with the last of summer warmth and infiltrated more and more by the bone chilling winter winds. The temperature was generally low, and the upper floor of the ancient structure where the old man had spent most of his time, were not effectively heated or insulated. This was especially fortunate, since this was the very place where Old Father time spent his final few, precious moments, and where his body lay, sprawled face up on and oriental rug, with a strange, euphoric look frozen onto his lifeless face until it was finally discovered, several hours later.

It was early in the day, and the sun did not manage to push its way past the
clouds. The chilly wind whirled dried leaves and flurries of snow around in confused circles on the downtown streets. Max Wicklow pulled his dark, wool coat tightly around him as he emerged from a bar on Oak street, a block away from the city center. He had been meeting with Byron Fitzpatrick, a real estate investor and antiquity enthusiast over lunch and perhaps one too many drinks. Now they walked quickly, and crossed Twenty-First Street against the light, then turned left, and continued on, past the pitch black windows of an abandoned factory. Fitzpatrick was balding and chubby and had lived most of his life in the suburbs, despite his fascination with things of a historical nature. He fought to meet Wicklow’s pace, and kept looking around and up at the contours of downtown, as if he had suddenly found himself on another planet.

Wicklow walked quickly and wore sunglasses to hide the sagging, dark circles
under his eyes. He kept his eyes fixed on the pavement ahead of him, so he did not have to meet the imploring gazes of dirty, bundled homeless people that lay in alleys and on the sidewalk, propped against the buildings that they passed. The city still loomed large, steeples and skyscrapers close together, reaching toward the gray blue sky, though most of them were empty now, some with red and white lettered signs in their lower windows that read “office space for rent”. Others simply stood dark and delapidated, waiting to be torn down. Traffic on the roads was sparse, mainly drivers passing through, and buses running idly through their routes, stopping for the small clusters of ragged shivering people that gathered at the transfer points.

“You’ll have to look fast or you’ll miss it,” Max said, gesturing grandly with his
left hand, as if he were heir to a kingdom. It was of course an ironic gesture, as this was a kingdom so desolate, impoverished and unnecessary that he wanted nothing more in the world than to be rid of it.

Byron Fitzpatrick took his comment to be a joke, of course. He had come to be
shown something ancient, something lasting, not only the building itself, but also the
business within, which had already existed for as long as his small mind could imagine was forever. He almost did miss it, however, as many people did. The building was narrow, and wedged into what seemed like an alley, with the corner of the factory next to it jutting out a full two feet further than the entrance of the shop. From dead on, however, he could see it, a funny gray stone building that seemed squashed from either side, but reached upward perhaps six or seven stories. Above a set of wide, stone steps rested a small wooden door, above which there was a painted clock, which always read 3:21 PM, and a modest sign of small, mounted letters beneath it which read “The Passage Of Time”. The look of it was unimpressive, despite its oddity, but Fitzpatrick found himself awestruck nonetheless. He had read articles about this local legend, begun by George Wicklow II over a century ago, a truly unique and artful maker and dealer of timepieces, the shop specialized in ornate grandfather clocks and designer mantel pieces that impressed even its wealthiest patrons.

To Max Wicklow, whose father was Gordon Wicklow, whose father had been
George III, all this was all simply ordinary and of very little interest to him. The things he knew to be true were of current importance, and a matter of his very survival. The
economy was not as strong as it had once been, and men of wealth and influence, like Fitzpatrick, lived in the suburban regions and scarcely made their way into the city.
Grandfather clocks and high dollar timepieces had fallen out of fashion of late, as most people chose convenience over artisanship, and did not have money to spend on decorative models. The shop had begun to deal in simpler, digital clocks, and though these sold more readily than the ornate, decorative ones, they still did not bring in much profit; there was barely enough business to keep the store open, which the old man seemed to want, for sentimental reasons. Also, the quality of Wicklow clocks had begun to decline over the years. George III had been an apprentice, but never the equal of George II, who was perhaps the last great artisan of the Wicklow line. Gordon had learned some of the skills that from George III, but his sensibilities leaned more toward the inventive than the artistic, and many of them were not marketable at all. Now they had to employ a clockmaker, when clock making was necessary. Max had never had enough interest to learn clock making skills, and considered himself primarily a businessman, who had to do, despite his deep roots and his father’s wishes, what businessmen have to do.

He had met Fitzpatrick at a luncheon a year ago, when he was still naive and
considering the possibility of moving the establishment to a suburban area, where perhaps it would draw the attention of the more financially prominent once more. Now, he understood that the whole idea had been ridiculous, and that the entire operation had to go. He had not told Fitzpatrick outright that he was considering abandoning the Passage Of Time and dismantling the production of Wicklow clocks, but simply that he had a proposal for the man that he would perhaps be interested in hearing.

Now, they pushed their way through the simple wooden door, into the strange,
narrow building and were suddenly pressed between two walls that were covered with clocks of all shapes and sizes, cuckoo clocks to standard wall clocks of every conceivable design. Fitzpatrick was amazed to note that despite the humble exterior, that he would have, indeed walked past, thinking it, like everything surrounding it was a hollowed out husk, empty of life or purpose, the interior of the building was really quite grand. The ceiling was higher than he expected, slanted at the entryway to extend a full four feet from the top of the door itself. The room in which they stood was only eight feet wide, but seemed strangely long, perhaps a city block, or even two.

“It’s incredible,” he said, “It’s like something out of a fairy tale.”

“My great grandfather didn’t build this,” Max told him, “But, as the story goes, he
knew when he saw it it was the right thing. It must have been incredibly inconvenient to lay out a store in such a strangely shaped building and, of course, I admire his visionary capabilities. It is unique, but it makes things difficult. It doesn’t give us much of a store front, which puts a lot of pressure on advertising.”
...

They ascended to the second level where the grandfather clocks stood, so close together they were almost touching each other. Most were old, ones that George III made from the blueprints of his father, while young Gordon watched with little understanding. They were grand, indeed, the last vestiges of true Wicklow craftsmanship, designed to reflect elegance as well as keep time. They were carved in oak, maple and cherry, stained to glow warm under the soft, hanging lights. Fitzpatrick regarded them like the wonder they were, and Max realized sadly that this was where he had placed them to stand dusty and forgotten, in favor of the newer, modern clocks that were more marketable in the current economic and social climate.

The upper floors were offices and workshops, where clocks were still being made, Max explained, trying to allow a hint of enthusiasm to enter his voice despite the fact that he felt mostly boredom and despair. Fitzpatrick seemed fascinated, as he toured the rest of the building. He proceeded with a kind of childish wonder, as though there were magic within the walls that Max himself was oblivious to.

The fifth and topmost floor, referred to by Max and his employees as the Bell
Tower, was used by the old man exclusively, and the young Mr. Wicklow approached it
with apprehension. He was not entirely sure what his father did in this sacred space
above his prized business. Before they ascended the final steps, Max called out for his father, so as not to startle him with the intrusion. There was no response, so the men climbled the final few steps, the chubby Fitzpatrick a little flushed and winded, his eyesstill glowing with childish wonder. It was then that Max learned that he was, in fact, officially, the new Father Time.

“Oh!” Byron Fitzpatrick let out a startled gasp, stepped backwards and only just
managed to catch himself, before he fell into the opening in the floor that housed the
stairwell. Max stared, and for a moment, forgot to breathe at all. The lifeless body of
Gordon Wicklow lay on its back, face frozen into a strange look of overwhelming
euphoria, his arms splayed out, as if crucified. Max was not a religious man, but that
final vision of his father, the posture and the expression, would haunt him for many years to come.