The Watch

The faint buzz from the fluorescent lights overhead was vaguely grating, like when you’re about to drift into sleep on a hot summer night and you hear a mosquito fly by your head, not so close that you wake up fully, but close enough that it pulls you from the edge of sleep.

The lights tinged the break room in a faint, stomach-churning green, made worse by how white the room was. The walls were white, the cupboards were white, the fridge, the tables, the chairs.

White.

The sickly green hue was made worse by the grey, shadowless light of the overcast sky coming in from the window. Matt craned his neck to look out at the greyness and dullness and felt even more sullen. He watched the trees bend slightly in the chilling wind. On a sunny day, the break room wasn’t so bad. Pleasant even. In the winter, at the right time of day, the sun would stream through the window and warm your back while you hunkered over a cup of coffee. In the summer, the fluorescent lights were usually off and the room was cool and dim, an oasis from the heat of the day. But it was no oasis today.

 The motor in the fridge kicked on and he turned to look at it without so much as a wrinkle moving on his bored face. White. He was sitting in the empty break room at the last table, facing the kitchen and the door. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, his legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, his arms crossed too and his chin dipping to his chest. If he sat like this for too long, he knew that his back would creak and protest when he got up but he didn’t care. He turned his attention to the thin stream of steam rising from the cooling cup of coffee in front of him. And next to his coffee, the box with the watch in it.

That fucking watch.

Kevin, Matt’s boss, had given it to Matt when he got to work that morning. “This is from the higher-ups.” Kevin said. “A little thank you for 15 years. They’re nice little watches, I remember when I got mine.” As Kevin handed Matt the box with the watch, Matt looked at the watch on Kevin’s thick, hairy arm. It was gold with a white face and a gold band. Matt guessed it probably had something like 15 years of service or Thanks for all of your hard work engraved on the back. 

“Wow, thank you.” Matt said feigning enthusiasm. He opened the small white “leather” box to reveal the same gaudy, gold watch with the white face. Matt took the watch out and flipped it over; it sparkled in the lights overhead. Commemorating 15 years of Dedicated Service was engraved on the back. How original. “Hard to believe it’s been 15 years.” Matt said.

“Yeah you were just a pup when you started here.” Kevin replied. “How old were you? 23? 24?”

“22.” Matt said without taking his eyes off of the watch.

“22. Yeah just a pup… Listen, can you do a little cleanup on the front lawn near emerg? There was an awful lot of garbage underneath all that snow. People are pigs.”

“Yeah, will do.” said Matt, putting the watch back in the box. He put it in his locker. “I’ll do that first before I change into my scrubs.

“Sounds good.” Kevin replied. “You can take lunch around 11.”

Now it was 11:13. He was halfway through his lunch break but he hadn’t eaten. He wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t had more than a sip of his coffee. What a great way to start the next 15 years of his life. After cleaning up all of the garbage outside (coffee cups, hospital bracelets, tissues, cigarette butts) He had come inside to start his rounds when he was called into a waiting room to clean up some kid’s vomit. Then he spent the rest of his morning cleaning bathrooms. Matt sat up and picked up the box, rotating it in his hands. He could hear the faint tick, tick, tick… in the faux leather box. 

He couldn't stand it anymore. He jumped out of his chair, dumped his coffee down the sink and left with the box, stuffing it in his pocket. He went to the break room and grabbed his jacket. He started heading towards the 2nd floor terrace, where Nathan usually took his breaks. Nathan was the drummer in Matt’s first band, Rooster, until Nathan’s girlfriend got pregnant and he had to quit to get a “real job” which happened to be a hospital custodian. Rooster was starting to get a pretty good reputation at that point, but after Nathan left, the rest of the guys followed, eager to get “real jobs” or go to college and start their lives.

Matt could see Nathan through the glass door to the terrace, sitting at a picnic table with a cigarette in his mouth and staring at his phone. “Hey what’s up?” Matt said as he pushed through the door. A gust of damp wind hit his face, making his cheeks sting. 

“Hey, what’re you doing out here?” Nathan said around the cigarette. He started to inhale, which made his eyes slit and the end of the cigarette glow orange. Matt always thought it was funny just how many smokers the hospital employed. 

“Coffee didn’t want to talk and I was getting sick of the breakroom. Can I bum a smoke?” Matt said.

Nathan blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes still slitted. A gust of wind came up again and whisked the blue smoke away. “Sure. When did you start smoking? I thought it was bad for your voice?” Nathan said, pulling a cigarette out of the pack. 

“It is.” said Matt as he put the cigarette in his mouth. “And I don’t smoke.” he muttered around the cigarette as he took the lighter from Nathan. After a couple of tries, the flame on the lighter held and Matt lit the cigarette. He took a big drag and he could feel the smoke burning down his throat and filling his lungs. He let the smoke out and began to cough, feeling his head rush.

Nathan laughed as he tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette. “I can see that. What’s up?”

Matt put the cigarette between his lips and pulled the watch box out of his pocket and opened it. “This.” he said. “I want to fucking smash it.” He put the box back in his pocket.

Nathan nodded his head “The 15 year watch. That one does sting a bit.” He said. “I think mine is in my sock drawer.”

Matt sat down. “I wasn’t supposed to be here this long. This job was a means to an end.” He said. Before Matt had gotten the job at the hospital, he was a struggling musician, scraping by with part time jobs in cafes and grocery stores. He had drifted from band to band, wrote everyday and played every open mic night he could. At 22 he found himself broke and in between jobs and bands. He had stayed in touch with Nathan and it was Nathan who got him the job at the hospital. “You’re not giving up.” Matt remembered Nathan saying. “You’re just paying the bills. Keep playing and keep writing, it’ll happen.” Those seemed too much like famous last words now.

“I know.” Nathan said. “We all thought that if someone was going to make it, it was you. What was the name of that band you were in that opened for Seeger?”

“Steel Horse.” Matt replied, tapping ash off of his cigarette. “That was a good band. I thought that was my ticket out.” he said. Matt was 25 during the Steel Horse days and had worked at the hospital for three grueling years. He was no stranger to a mop and broom but nothing could have prepared him for being a hospital custodian. He had seen and cleaned things he wished he could forget. Blood, guts, shit and puke, he had cleaned it all. He remembered when he first started and trying regularly not to throw up in his mask, his eyes watering with the effort. He hated the job but the money and the promise of something better on the horizon kept him going.

 When Steel Horse scored the gig opening for Bob Seeger it seemed like they were on their way, but not long after that the band had fallen apart like all the rest; too many cooks in the kitchen.

“Yeah I thought so too.” Nathan said, stubbing out his cigarette and putting the butt in his empty coffee cup. “You sold any more songs?” Nathan asked.

Matt scoffed. A few different artists had recorded some songs that Matt wrote but they weren’t big artists with big labels. Every now and then he would get a royalty cheque but not often enough or big enough to consider himself a songwriter. “I haven’t written anything good in a long time.” Matt said. 

“Bullshit.” Nathan replied. “You’re a good writer. What about your album?” 

Matt scoffed again. When he was 28 he self produced an album. He had 1000 copies made, half of which were still in his parent’s basement. “That was a waste of money.” Matt said. “When’s the last time you played?” he said, deflecting the conversation away from himself. He knew Nathan was trying to make him feel better, but it felt more like he was being dragged across the coals of his failures.

Nathan scoffed this time. “Probably your thirtieth birthday.” he said. “That was a fun night. Your jam birthday parties are always a good time.”  

“I haven't had a party in three years, since the pandemic started, but it feels more like 15.” Matt said. Nathan looked up at the hospital and nodded in agreement. “I’ve actually hardly played or written since it started.” Matt added. “I feel like I’ve slipped into a coma or something.”

The pandemic had been grueling. The uncertainty, the fear, the sanitizing, the waiting and wondering. When it started, the work got harder and the hours got longer. During the first influx of cases it was normal to work over 12 hours a day to keep up with the cleaning. Even the custodial staff were wearing isolation gowns, gloves, masks and face shields. Matt never did shake the helpless, dystopian feeling of working in a hospital during a pandemic. Every day he would wake up and the first thing he could feel was dread trying to submerge him, like an undertow trying to pull him down into the dark. When he looked into the eyes of Doctors, Nurses and patients it was hard not to be overcome with a sense of being helpless and small. Everyone worked themselves as hard as they could and then worked harder. While the vaccines brought some relief and a sense of normalness, the lingering effects of the pandemic were still there like the roots of an insidious weed that couldn’t be pulled and burned.

A few moments had passed, both of them quietly reflecting on the last few years. Nathan pulled out his phone and sighed. “Well, time to get back at it.” He said. “Floors aren’t gonna clean themselves.”

“Yeah I should go back too.” Matt replied as he started to stand up.

They started for the door. “Listen,” said Nathan. “You know I don’t bullshit people and I’m only gonna say this once. You’ve been walking around here like a corpse for a long time, even before the pandemic. It wasn’t very noticeable at first, but everyday you could see a little more light going out of your eyes. And then when the pandemic hit you went full zombie. I know things didn’t shake out the way you thought they would and that this was temporary but that doesn’t matter. You’re a talented musician and a talented writer. Just because you don’t have a record deal or you’re not selling out stadiums doesn’t change that. You’re too hard on yourself man, you’ve got to learn to feel pride in the things you’ve done instead of worrying about the things you haven’t.” 

They had stopped walking. Matt found it hard to meet Nathan’s gaze; they had known each other a long time and Nathan wasn’t big on sappy speeches. Finally, Matt looked at him. “Yeah, you’re right.” He said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Nathan said as he started for the door again. “Seriously, don’t mention it. Everyone will think I’ve gone soft.” Nathan said over his shoulder. 

“Gone soft?” Matt asked sarcastically. “You went soft a long time ago.” They both laughed as they went through the door.

* * *

Matt drove home in silence. Twilight was settling in and making the town purple and fuzzy. Matt hated this time of day. He always imagined everyone around him in their cars on their way home from work feeling tired and defeated, feet moving heavily between pedals and their eyes drooping dully. 

Houses at twilight bugged Matt too. The yellow light that spilled from one or two windows in an otherwise dark house always seemed lonely and sad, especially when the sad light shone the same way in house after lonely house.

Matt had a slight headache (probably from not eating any lunch) and he felt a tired ache in his eyes. The rest of his day had gone by, slow and boring but without incident. He even forgot about the watch in his locker for a few hours. But when his shift ended and he went to leave, the ugly white box was there and he felt the weight of 15 years settle back into his stomach. 

He pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. He didn’t get out right away; instead he grabbed the white box off of the passenger seat, flipped it open and stared at it, his ears buzzing with silence, broken by the occasional car whooshing by on the road.

After a few minutes he shook himself out of his trance; he felt as if he’d fallen asleep. He guessed that he was hesitant to go upstairs because he dreaded going into his dark, quiet apartment. He imagined going upstairs and flicking on the single lamp in the living room, and the sad, lonely light would spill out into the dusky, purple light outside and he would add to the long line of sad, lonely windows emitting a yellow glow.

Finally he got out of the car and trudged upstairs. He flicked on the hall light and the kitchen light. He set the box down on the counter and got a pot out to boil water for pasta. He scrolled through his phone as the water started to steam and bubble. 

He let out a bored sigh and looked into the living room. He could see his electric in its stand and his practice amp squatting next to it in the barely lit room. He stared at it for a minute, thinking about what Nathan said.

He turned the element on the stove off and went toward the guitar, hitting the switch for the lamp's single yellow bulb. He went to his amp and flicked the power switch. There was a snap as the amp powered on and it began to hum with quiet life. He grabbed his guitar out of its stand and strummed it. The strings replied in a quiet dissonance; it was out of tune. He really hadn’t played in a while. He quickly tuned it and sat down on the stool he used to practice. He went to plug the guitar into the amp and could see the fiery orange glow from the tubes reflecting dimly on the wall behind it, as if there were coals in the amp, waiting for someone to come and fan the flames. That thought made him smile.

He fiddled with the settings on the amp before sitting up and wrapping his hand around the neck of the guitar. He fingered a chord and strummed.

The shimmer of the guitar broke the silence in his apartment. The sound from the tubes in the amp was bright and glassy. He suddenly felt as if he’d just woken up from a long sleep. Only in its absence did he realize just how heavy and dream-like his life was feeling, as if he had been living underwater. He strummed a few more chords and every one was just as bright and full of life as the last. He kept strumming and started to hum.

A couple of words drifted into his thoughts. He set the guitar down to grab the leather-bound journal he wrote in. He found it in the drawer of an end table, with a faint layer of dust laying on the cover. He sat back down with the journal opened on the arm of the couch next to him. He picked his guitar back up and started to sing the words quietly while he strummed, trying to fit music and lyrics together.