The Watch
Testicles.. pat pat pat, yep… spectacles… yep, grab… wallet… into pocket… watch. Watch? Barry scouts the bedside table, behind the lamp, down between the bed. Only dust. He stands up, pushes his longish brown fringe back onto his head.
Barry distinctly remembers taking his dad’s Rolex off and placing it on the bedside table. Like he’d done every night since his dad had died ten years ago from a massive heart. The watch’d been left to Barry with a message, ‘Wear this to remind yourself of the great man you could become.’ Even after death his dad had found a way to be an arsehole. Barry couldn’t remember a single week when alive where the old man hadn’t reminded him about the great potential he’d had as a child. He could have been a lawyer with that cutting wit and dashing good looks. His dad would peer over his glasses, “But you can’t ever really know what a child will do when they grow up.” Thirty years of weekly reminders his chosen career as a writer was not up to scratch. And back then he’d had a book deal with his editors telling him it was going to be a success. Maybe even a movie deal or TV series.
Fuckin’ old prick. If his dad had been around to read the first reviews of the book - ostentatious, pretentious, overbearing, immature - he would have nodded sagely and started in on one of his monologues about the value of a real profession. Fuck, where is that watch?
He’d had a bottle of red last night and fallen asleep on the couch. But it wasn’t between the cushions or on the coffee table. It wasn’t in the kitchen, the laundry, bathroom or car. Barry frowns.
He still recalls the pleasure he’d felt when he’d heard the news his dad was dead. He would’ve shimmied but his girlfriend had burst into tears and hugged him, “Oh Barry that’s just terrible! He was such a great man!” That relationship hadn’t lasted to the next month. Then when the watch had come to Barry through the will, the message engraved after his father’s death, he’d found even greater pleasure in wearing the chunky gold thing, especially when writing.
But now he couldn’t find it. The watch he’d carefully placed on his bedside table with a heartfelt “Fuck you dad, fuck you very much,” every night for the last ten years. A whole fucking decade and he still couldn’t get the fucker out of his head. Come to think of it, it must be close to a decade now on the dot. A familiar sinking feeling hits his guts. The one he’d get when he knew his dad was about to launch into him.
Barry checks the calendar. Wednesday 23 August. Exactly ten years since the bastard died. He grabs a beer out of the fridge then slumps on the couch. He knows he won’t find the watch. It’s been reclaimed from beyond the grave. Fuckin’ prick!
