25 November 2012
By Miscellaneous. The old man made clocks. Carefully fine-tuned, lovely things. Ones that chimed, tingled, or sang. Ones that cuckooed and talked. Painted and raw ones.
The Girl loved the clocks. Before and after school she would browse the shop, running her fingers over the elegantly designed faces. And before she left she would always tell the old man her favorite one of the day.
The old man didn’t care. He had seen too many things to be interested in a little girl’s prattle. He had lived too long and knew too much--too much to be amazed at a collection of gears and screws, neatly wrapped up in a box.
He turned a deaf ear to the girl, instead focusing on carving little birds and flowers, or tightening loosened bolts.
He turned a deaf ear, just as he turned a blind eye to the world around him.
He thought himself as an old clock, waiting to run out of time. Wake, make, sleep.
It was on one day of this tedious schedule, when the Girl announced her want for an apprenticeship.
He finally looked up and saw her. She was not a little girl anymore. She had blossomed into a full lady of sixteen, with long dark hair and somber eyes. Eyes that wanted to be trained to fit gears together. Hands that wanted to carve and paint.
The old man sighed. His Wake-Make-Sleep was ruined. But he motioned her behind the desk, and gave her two small gears and a screw. And thus he taught her. The first day, the basics: screwing and fitting. Then she was taught of the finer arts of fitting.
Then carving.
Then painting.
By the end of the month, a crude timepiece had been developed.
The Girl was ecstatic. “Look how it ticks! And the carvings!”
The old man sighed once more. “Amateur.” And he turned a blind eye.
The blind eye masked the world until a year later, when the girl showed him another clock she’d made. It was tiny, about the size of one’s palm, yellow, with grey gargoyles carved and painted. It was more intricate than anything he’d carved.
The blind eye came back.
Three months later, the shield was lifted once more, when one of her clocks had an owl pop out of his nest at night and a bird fly in the morning.
The old man felt a slight stir inside of him. He looked down at the clock.
But the blind eye got him again.
He put it down. He could hear the iciness in the girl’s voice as she said, “All right then, I’ll work here one more year, but then I’m through.” She slammed the clock on the table. Through clenched teeth, she bent down to the old man’s eyes and hissed, “I have put in all my time and effort to try to please you. And there is no approval!” She began to pace the room. “I have loved making these clocks, but I do not want to be holed up in this room for the rest of my life, like YOU. Yes, its been nice, but I want to see the WORLD! I have come here every day for one year and a half and there is so much besides this shop!”
She stopped pacing and almost whispered, “Look at you. You’ve lived here your entire life. What have you achieved? Money? No. No one buys your clocks. Approval? No. When have you ever been noticed, besides when the children tease you about never seeing the sun?” She had now an almost pleading tone. “About how you never see anything?” She knelt before him. “When have you ever noticed what color the sky is in the summer heat? How bright the leaves look in the fall?” She rose again. “NEVER! Sir, you may stay here in this dusty shop, whiling away your days in a musty closet...I’ll see the true world!” And she banged out the door.
The old man said nothing. He stared at the clock he’d been painting, and noticed a drop of wetness had smeared the design of a girl’s face. A girl with somber eyes and dark hair.
Two more tears joined the stain till the blind eye’s mask dried the rest.
The next year was quiet for the old man. The Girl did come to work and he heard tinkering in the back room, but he felt a sharp pang whenever he remembered she’d be soon gone.
He hated the pang, and turned a blind eye so he couldn’t feel it.
The year passed almost too quickly. In August the Girl met him by the window She looked strange. A mixture of reluctance, sadness, and hope wafted across her face like clouds.
“Thank you,” she whispered. And she opened the sash and jumped out.
The old man rushed to the window. He expected to see her body, lying still on the ground. He did not expect to see the Girl in a flying machine sailing toward the sea.
She looked back and waved.
The old man watched. Then he turned to his desk and turned a blind eye to the world.
A Blind Eye • Opuss № I