He was bent over, sitting at a bench focused on some task with such intensity; I thought only I'd ever known. Some mysterious tools I had never seen moved with deliberate precession, held in huge but lightening quick hands, as I peered into the window of his shop, my nose pressed close to the glass. I was entranced, and little did I know, hooked then on what was to come.
It was Friday, and I’d just cut classes again at John Adams High, word of another race riot was about to begin with another school Jefferson High and I knew better than to hang. Hough and Euclid in Cleveland, Ohio was not a place one wanted to be.
So there I was, with time on my hands, before the afternoon caddy job in Shaker Heights was to begin and my part time job at the bowling alley on weekend nights where I repaired AMF automatic pin setters. I was underage with no working papers so hidden from view by the owner, but my sister and I had to eat, and I wasn’t looking forward to going home anyway. I also had to do collections for my 3:30 am paper route, for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, dreading the huge Sunday edition to come.
I felt guilty with all those thoughts whirling in my head, as I stood their looking in. I knew I should be making extra money carrying doubles that day, but for some reason I could not move from my spot. My eyes took in the shop as I stood my books in hand, watching the old man work. Above his bench hanging on the wall above was an old and small Grandfathers Clock, which I knew about from living in Maysville, Kentucky with a woman, Bessie who raised me for a time, as she had a standing one in the foyer that would wake the dead when it chimed that looked similar and was my job to wind.
The shop was small, mostly darkened, but narrow and long, that went all the way down to a back alley, and the shop was filled with wondrous and intriguing mechanical devises, I couldn’t quite make out. The bench had tools hanging in wooden holders, and though it seemed cluttered, I could tell everything had a place, the light shinning down from a shaded lamp, his hands moving from his task reaching to put back or take down some other tool. His huge hands moved like the dance of a ballerina, each move calculated and deliberate with no wasted motion. It was a thing of beauty, and reminded me of Bessie in her kitchen preparing meals for the folks in her old age home. She was a big woman, but moved the same way.
I don’t know why I stopped that day, as I’d walked past that shop many times from school; the 5 miles like a gift of release, as the cost of bus tickets were out of the question, making money was the driving force then, and every nickel counted. I had looked in many times before as I went past, but only a short interested glance or two, as other things were more important than some old man sitting at a bench, except that day.
So, there I stood and watched, the old man never taking his eyes off his task. Then daylight burst through the somewhat dark shop, except for his bench, as a door opened from the back alley. I moved over towards the door of the shop to get a better view, and two men with a huge black box, were rolling it in on a hand truck, with some effort I thought. Later I would find out it was a safe. Out of the corner of my eye, my nose still pressed to the window, I saw the old man move, and his bald head glistened as the light from the work bench played on it, and I laughed out loud.
I watched as he headed to the back of the shop, but I could see he was stooped, and unable to fully stand, yet moved like a cat, and I knew he’d been a big man tall and strong at some time in his life. I choked off the laughter. I was a tall skinny and gangly kid, and had always admired the descriptions of Greek athletes I’d read about in books. I felt sad and ashamed at my laugh, with what I saw as his body played against the daylight his shadows moving against the lighted walls, as that stooped body headed down the long hall, to the back alley.
I moved back to my original place, to look at the bench to see what had been hidden by his bent over body, and there on the clean orderly bench, lay several locks and an old chess game clock. I could not see them clearly, but I knew what they were. Parts were scattered here and there, and one lock seemed to be complete, but even in the scattered placement you could see order. For some reason I can’t explain to this day, I felt strange, and I could feel my heart pounding as I had to step back from the glass, to catch my balance, books slipping from my hands.
I took a minute to focus my eyes which were now accustomed to the darkness inside, and looked up at the shop front, and saw the sign that read “Locks and Clocks.” That was it, nothing more, no names no other words, as my head finally cleared my hands still trembling, I reached down to pick up the books I’d dropped, my heart still pounding. I went back to the window, but the daylight was gone, and the old man could not be seen down the long hallway, so I waited a few minutes, but he did not return. My guilt I supposed at the time got the better of me, but other thoughts I can’t describe played in my head as I left and ran the rest of the way home, but I vowed I’d be back. It was like I’d stepped into another world that day and it shook me.
Fall would come early that year, the temperatures dropping and with them, would also come the worst snowstorm Cleveland had seen in years. I still had part of the summer left, and had to make as much money as I could somehow sensing the long winter to come, and my loss of income. Being a Doubles Caddy paid well, 12 bucks for 18 holes, and sometimes tips. I was glad in a way I’d be late, as I was not built for doubles bags, but singles got you 6 bucks for 18 holes so I wouldn’t lose much. The paper route paid pretty well, especially since I’d built it up to 179 customers that summer, and I looked forward to holiday tips, that were great, since people had a different mind-set then.
My daily focus however was now on the old man and the Locks and Clocks shop, as all other things somehow became less intense, even if important. For three weeks I cut classes, skipped school, and day after day stood at that window for some reason I could not fathom never daring to enter. I never got a B except once in all my schooling, and never needed the books, as mostly it came too easy. So, I didn’t sweat the school, since the public school was 4 years behind what I already knew, and you could get lost in a school with 3000 others, so that old man and the shop took over my existence.
Each day, I stood transfixed as I watched trying to catch a glimpse of what he was doing, and my love for the mechanical perhaps from my fathers ability with the tool an die company, as I heard later he was considered one of the best, and an inventor of some machined device he made, that cured the failing of bomb bay doors to open properly in B-17’s in WWII. In any event, I had a mechanical inquisitive mind, so there I stood each day watching.
It was a Monday, one of those days I decided again that school could do without me, and I’d become rather adept at writing notes, it was early so I headed to the shop. I supposed I looked a sight, as people always seemed to stare, at what was considered in those days as white trash, old beat up 4 year old sneakers, and clothes that didn’t fit, but I didn’t care, as being a half-breed I ignored their stares, I’d been that road early on. Once a cop stopped and asked me what I was doing, like I was going to rob the place, but with my gift of gab, so I thought… they watched but left me alone. I’d find out later why they did.
I’d finished my route early, and was a bit worn out, but the store front had a small ledge I could sit on, as I peered into the shop that day. I’d been sitting for some time, when suddenly the old man turned looking straight at me, something he’d never done all those days and weeks past. My heart jumped, and I wanted to run, having been caught, but I sat transfixed for what seemed like some very long minutes, my gaze on his eyes, deep set, not cold but not friendly either as he stared at me.
He raised his arm, his big hand motioned to me to come in. I thought at first he was looking at someone behind me so I turned, to look, but there was no one on the walk but me. I turned back, and he motioned to me again, and his eyes softened a bit and I knew he meant me, and I felt shame at the way I was dressed, but exhilarated and safe all at the same time. I stood up, reached for the brass knob on the door, and turned it.
I recall to this day that moment, a bit scared, tears in my eyes, as I wiped my nose, and went in. I quietly closed the door, as though I had entered a quiet church, with respect for the silence and stood there unable to move. He never took his eyes off me, and never spoke a word, as his hand pointed to a stool sitting next to him. That stool had never been there before in all the days and weeks I stared through that window. I tried to gather myself together, and stand tall, and then cursed myself remembering his walk to the back of the store, and the only time I’d ever seen him move from the bench. Finally my legs moved, as his head turned back to his work.
I moved slowly as I glanced around the shop, clocks of all kinds, locks of every description covered the walls, keys of every conceivable variety hung on one wall, but the sounds of ticking clocks, and the smells of oils, and other things that my young mind could not comprehend then flooded my senses. I couldn’t believe my good fortune, as the only place I’d ever felt at home, was my attic, where I built a complete city of trains, I’d swapped for some baseball cards from a kid at school since his parents wouldn’t let him have them. It was my escape, like my long walks, and the only clear reality of a world I could not understand then. With my head swimming my legs finally got me to the stool.
The space in front of me as I sat down on the stool was clean, except for a hand scrawled note, with only one word on it. WATCH.
The world ceased to exist that day, as did the remaining days to come that summer. Over the years some moments, have become a blur yet are still intense…they are crystal moments in my mind so more is yet to come, from the Old Man, the Lock and the Clock, and the lessons learned.
(To be continued)
