There, Now I Can Breathe

Content warning: Depictions of anxiety.

It feels like the walls are closing in; the stench of linseed oil, body odor, sweat, and rusted metal permeates the air around me. Closing my eyes, I attempt to ignore all the unfinished projects, but I can't keep my eyes from darting around all the tiny parts littering the table.

It was the bezel that did me in. Whatever tenuous hold I have on my sanity slips as my hands shake, and I wipe my sweaty palm on my denim apron and try once more to smooth out the bezeled piece, rounding the edge of the pocket watch. This should be easy. Child's play. I could fix a fifty-year-old Hamilton Railway in my sleep. Instead, black dots crowd my vision, and I can't clear my head or think straight.

The ding on my computer notifies me I've got another request, but I disregard it. Wiping my hands down once more, I lean back under the burning lamp which illuminates my workspace and, with shaking hands and sweat pouring down my forehead, complete the simple task. Got it. I adjust the magnifier attached to my glasses and admire the smooth bezel as the clock's base clicks back into place. From there, reassembling the vintage watch becomes easy, and I work swiftly if only to be done with this dratted thing.

After tossing the watch in a standard white envelope—my chicken-scratch handwriting already pre-addressed to the receiver—I carry the small package up the dimly lit, creaking wooden stairs, and emerge into the brightly lit yellow kitchen, a stark contrast from my den. Guessing by the pungent aroma of white pepper and tomato, I find my mother stirring a hearty meat stew on the stove.

"Here," I grumble, holding the envelope out to her.

Mother ignores me, her round body swishing like a washing machine agitator in front of the stove as she stirs the pot.

"I need a stamp," I try not to snap while waving the envelope impatiently.

She drops the wooden spoon in the pot and turns to face me, hands on her rounded hips, obscured by all the bright yellow frills on her dress. "You know good and well where the stamps are, young man," she points a pudgy finger toward the dining room, "you're perfectly capable of putting one on yourself. Maybe if you didn't spend all your time tinkering around in that basement with your toys and instead acted like the man of the house, you might know a thing or two—"

Her voice trails off as I stomp toward the dining room. She loves to call me 'young man' and then demands I act like the man of the house, all in one sentence. Fiddling around in the drawer of the tall ancient hutch, I find the stamp, slap it on the envelope and head back toward the kitchen. 

Just as my hand clutches the door handle to head outside, she picks up where she left off, "And why don't you take the trash out while you're at it? Huh? You're lazy, good for nothin'! The critters got into the trash again last week, and I had to spend twenty minutes picking up—" Her voice trails off once more as I slam the kitchen door shut behind me.

The overcast summer day assaults my senses, leaving me unable to take a full, clean breath. My eye starts twitching, and, for a moment, I contemplate sneaking back into the basement through the window. But after lugging the trash to the curb and flipping the little red flag on the mailbox, I know I'm due for some praise, so I strut back into the kitchen, head held high.

"Trash's out," I declare, leaning over Mother's shoulder, taking a big whiff of the beef stew on the stovetop. The red liquid bubbles, the unrecognizable contents thick with a sheen of yellow oil along the top.

She pets my arm, "That's my good boy. Dinner will be ready in ten. Wash up, pumpkin."

I kiss her temple and head back down to the basement to clear my workstation. Another ding on my computer crashes my temporarily improved mood. I contemplate ignoring it, but my compulsive side won't let me walk away.

I arrange my tools, click off the bright lamp, and slide the laptop closer as I perch on the uncomfortable metal chair. Junk mail, junk mail. Then, the requests for repairs. I click open the first email. 

Harry, I got your name from a friend of yours, Ben Waslewski, at a trade show out of Hampton. I've been trying to find someone to repair this old watch my dad gave me, it's about 40 years old. I've been told you're the watch whisperer. Every place I take it tells me that it's broken and no one will be able to fix it. Something about a bent escape wheel? Fingers crossed, you can. Get back when you're able, John Stein.

The little nugget of praise fans my ego, and I smile despite myself. Yes, I'm sure I can fix it. I open the next email, and it's along the same lines. Then I open another and another. I don't realize how wide my smile is until it drops off my face. The spots in my vision creep right back in, lead heavy in my gut when I open the following email. 

You son of a bitch, I've called, I've emailed. Where the fuck is my grandmother's clock!? You've had it for months! You said you could fix it in a matter of days. I need to know if you still have it, at least. I don't even care if it's fixed. I want it back. It means a lot to me. Please just reply to this email or ship it to the address below.

I scan through the rest of the email, feeling slightly sick. The truth is, the clock is done. It took me less than an hour to fix. It just takes me a while to finish or send projects sometimes. Plus, it's bigger than a pocket watch. I can't just shove it into an envelope. I have to go to the post office. I have to find a box and some tape. I have to talk to people. No one understands how hard that is.

I close the email and open the next one. 

Harry, it's Genevieve Byron. I'm trying to be patient, but you've had my pocket watch for almost six months. You said you had to order a part, and then I never heard from you again. I'm really upset. I just want it back—

I slam the laptop closed and, on shaky legs, trudge over to the large white bin sink at the corner of the basement and wash my hands. The plastic basin smells like piss because sometimes I'm too lazy to go upstairs and use the bathroom. Avoiding the minefield that is Mother's moods is a chore. Easier to just hide down here.

Flapping my hands at my sides to air dry them, I make it upstairs just a few minutes late to Mother pouring me a steaming bowl of beef stew. "Thanks," I take the bowl gratefully and head into the dining room. We eat together, and while I typically enjoy blissful silence, Mother complains about me and the neighbors, and I let her. 

—

The following day, seated awkwardly in Mother's old forest green Pontiac, I make my way across town to the only clock repair shop in the city, Buying Time.

I'm slightly taller than Mother, but she won't let me adjust the seat so I can drive comfortably. My knees nearly hit the steering wheel, and somehow, like a sixth sense, she always knows when I've adjusted it, so I never bother. It's not worth her denigration. It's her car, after all, and I'm only allowed to use it once a week.

Fixing clocks is a lost art, and while the owner of Buying Time, Roger, is pretty good, I'm better. I don't like to give my address out, so I often have parts sent to the store, and it gives me a chance to talk shop. I collect the parts for Genevieve's watch and chat with Roger for a few minutes. Now that I have what I need, I can fix the timepiece, and she'll be happy because there's no one else in the state, possibly the country, that could fix that watch for her.

Feeling so good about how productive today went, I decide to pull into the Burger King on my way home and reward myself. Knowing I couldn't order drive-through because Mother would smell the fast food on the seats, I begrudgingly head inside but stop to peek through the windows to confirm the building is relatively empty.

I step into the bathroom to take a quick leak, ignoring the reflection of the old, emaciated man with whispy grey-brown hair and shy posture staring back at me. 

The young woman at the register looks bored. Pretty is wasted on her. She works her jaw over a piece of gum, and I can't help but imagine how her mouth could be put to better use. I ignore the urge to adjust myself, instead watching her tap the buttons on the register with flourish, her long fingernails clicking against the screen. "Next!" She shouts before I even have to make eye contact. 

After my order is called, I slip into a booth and scarf down the flattened, soggy burger. Mother would have a fit if she knew I was spoiling dinner. A group of teen boys laugh and shove each other as they walk past my booth, and I cringe away from them. Despite the twenty-plus years that have passed since I attended, memories of high school are still a physical thing. One boy knocks another so close to me I feel as if I'm being shoved, too, and suddenly, I need to get out of here.

I climb back into the car, curling a long piece of gum into my mouth. Mother will be suspicious if I smell like mint, but better that than a double bacon cheeseburger. Flexing my hands on the fuzzy, now matted steering wheel cover, my phone dings beside me. 

Worried it's Mother needing me or her car back, I dig my phone out but find more email notifications instead. I open the first. Another request to fix an old timepiece. Another thanked me for finally returning and repairing their family heirloom. And three more asking me what's taking so long.

I feel sick. Maybe it was the burger, but after tossing my phone onto the passenger seat, I can't stop the shaking. Sweat beads at my brow, and my phone dings again. Then again, once more. My right eye twitches, and I feel like the world is closing in.

Maybe I bit off more than I can chew. But Mother always tells me I'm useless, and I wanted to prove her wrong. I've poured my blood, sweat, and tears into my clock repair business. But sometimes, it doesn't feel worth it. Spots cloud my vision, and I pull off my glasses to wipe my face. When I return them, I realize I've driven right passed the turn to my road.

I'll get the next one, I decide. But as I watch the turn approach, I keep driving. Again and again, I miss the turns, and before I realize it, I'm on the interstate. My phone dings, and I pick it up and throw it out the window.

There, now I can breathe. 

Two hours pass before I have to pull over for gas. I refill the tank, sigh reluctantly, then turn around and drive home. Mother is going to be so mad at me.