The wall was covered in ivy. So much so, that the house looked more green than it’s original white-creamish color, and perhaps it would’ve looked beautiful and sophisticated, like ivy is usually intended to, if it hadn’t been allowed to consume the house. Charlotte found it amusing sometimes, and fancied that it looked like a jungle, but also sad that no one had bothered to take care of it for what had to have been a long time. The fence, and she liked the fence immensely, was made like a cage. Black iron, made into thin bands that curved outwards at the top in vaguely sinister spikes, and connected by intricate, looping designs that somehow made the house even more foreboding. It was an odd thing to like, sure, but Charlotte liked the house nonetheless. She didn’t know who lived there, if anyone did at all, and really the house held no significance to her at all, but the bus drove past it on the way to her stop everyday, and she’d developed a sort of attachment to it. In the two years that she’d been taking this bus route to and from work, it had remained identical to the first time she saw it, untouched by the passing of time (excepting the growth of even more ivy). The rest of the town, of which Charlotte was indeed fond--though not as much as the rural town she’d grown up in--was always changing. Now, she could hardly complain of change, for it was mostly the building of yet another coffeeshop that disrupted the serenity of the town, but that didn’t necessarily negate the fact that the house on the corner of the street several stops before her own had become a personal favorite of hers. And, to be honest, how many different places did one town need to get coffee?
The bus was nearly full. Each row on each side housing at least one person, who was doing their best to avoid social activity after a long day at the office, and many rows filled with two people, practicing a careful indifference towards the person beside them. Charlotte had decisively placed herself more near the front, but not so much in the front that she would have to acknowledge every person to walk in or feel the draft coming in the doors. More so that she would avoid the noisier, more rambunctious people who seemed to migrate towards the bus’ end. She recognized most of the people who stepped on, and even gave a small greeting towards those with whom she was better acquainted while desperately hoping that the other seats, rapidly filling in with people, would be taken before the one next to her. Charlotte didn’t necessarily dislike talking to people so much as she just plain wasn’t very good at it. Today was worse than usual. She could make useless conversation most of the time, if it suited the other person, but today seemed to be a day where any desire to be contacted by another human being was nonexistent. It was most likely why her current job as a columnist for the local newspaper suited her well. Interacting, even minimally, was not even close to the top of her what-I’d-like-to-do-right-now list.
When she heard the footsteps and felt the seat next to her moving, she rested her forehead against the cool window and gave a soft sigh that made a small area of fog on the glass. The ivy house was quickly falling behind and Charlotte’s eyebrows furrowed a bit as she lost sight of it. There was nothing interesting left to see outside the window for the rest of her ride so reluctantly she turned to glance at the unlucky person who was going to have to put up with her admittedly-bad mood.
The man, and what an odd, odd man, next to her was unfamiliar to Charlotte. She’d never seen him in town before and he’d never taken the bus when she had--not that she recalled everyone that came onto the bus, but surely she would’ve remembered a fellow such as this. He was an older man, coming onto the age of maybe seventy from what she saw. Not ugly by any means, with laugh-line surrounding his eyes--a color she didn’t quite catch at her first glance--but they were shadowed by eyebrows that, frankly, were ridiculously white and bushy. Hair was still thick and white on his head, and parted mostly to one side as though he had attempted to make it look nice, but the wind outside had caused quite a bit of it to stick up. The man either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He was dressed nicely as well, in a suit that was fairly old; the kind of suit she remembered seeing on her grandfather in pictures. And it wasn’t the right size. The trousers were a few inches too short and if he hadn’t been so thin, they would’ve clung tightly to his legs. Despite this, the bottoms still managed to be worn. The jacket fit well enough, if not also a tad small, but the sleeves were too long and hung loosely off his arms. Individually each aspect was not particularly special, but overall provided a picture of a man who didn’t seem quite right in the mind.
Charlotte was never one to spend too much time on judgement, and quickly turned back to the window despite a noticeable lack of things to notice. She thought he must be from out of town, for surely she would’ve seen this ridiculous man at some point or another over the past two years, but not many people outside of the town took this bus. Either way, he was a bit odd. An odd man who caused her a bit of confusion. Okay, she thought, and left it at that.
Her mind had already turned to the column she was going to write next for the paper when a small sound came from his direction. She played it off for nothing at first, for it was impossibly soft, no one in any other seat could’ve possibly heard it, but there it was again. An unmistakable… was it ticking? She glanced over at the odd man to see him examining a pocket watch, and a beautiful one at that.
It was silver with intricate, looping designs engraved on the cover, and some swirling script that might’ve been someone’s name. It was dented and scratched, as if it was frequently dropped or maybe even put through the wash, but also meticulously polished and cared for. The inside was just as beautiful as the outside, with delicate hands pointing in different directions and a white background with black numerals around the edges. Plain, but beautiful nonetheless. Simplicity is elegance, as her mother used to tell her.
Yes it was definitely a ticking but something was… off. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but something made her look closer. She didn’t see if the odd man noticed but her eyes strained to inspect it better, while also keeping her head carefully facing forwards. The time was wrong. That must’ve been it. The ticking was too slow and had sounded weird because of it. Charlotte took out her phone, a fossil piece of technology that allowed her to do little more than call home if the whim ever arose, to check the time and found, to her surprise, that, yes, the small pocket watch was several hours too early.
“Are you missing your eyebrows, ma’am?” A low voice said beside Charlotte, causing her to jump slightly. The man’s lips were quirked up in a friendly smile and the watch was resting lightly in his hand.
“I-I’m sorry, what?” She managed to get out as she looked at him properly for the first time.
“Nothing, miss. I was wondering if you’d lost your eyebrows, but it seems they were just lost in your hair for a moment.” The comment was made with no malice in his voice. Obviously meant as a joke, but Charlotte still flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m really sorry, I was just looking at your watch, whichreallyisexquisitebytheway,” She rushed the compliment on at the end to make sure he knew she was admiring the timepiece. “and I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I think the time is off.”
“Is it, now?” He looked amused as his long fingers trailed over the silver, but made no move to try and change the time.
“Um, the name’s Charlotte, by the way.” Charlotte stated purely for the fact that she did not appreciate being left in an awkward silence once a conversation had started. “Charlotte Wallace.”
“Lovely name.” He hummed, looking oddly pleased at the small talk with a stranger, and extended his free hand out to her. “Chester Wing, pleased to make your acquaintance Miss Wallace.”
She gave him a smile, probably the first genuine one she’d given all day, as the shook hands (a formality she’d not had to do in a while). The silence fell again but the man, Chester, seemed perfectly at ease in the quiet.
“So…” He might’ve been fine, but Charlotte, while not particularly inclined towards starting a conversation, was less inclined to leave one hanging once it had been initiated. She glanced at her phone again. “It’s 5:38 right now, if you wanted to know.” Chester smiled a bit more. “You could change your pocket watch to the right time, though,” she gave another moment’s thought “you should to take it in to get fixed.”
“Why is that?” It was his turn for eyebrows to be raised and it caused Charlotte to blush again, for some reason.
“It’s gears must be off or something. It ticks too slow.” She said unsurely. Maybe she’d been wrong. “You could change to the right time, but soon it would be wrong again.”
“Hmmm.” He intoned, his head resting back against the seat with his eyes closed. “You’re a clever one. Most people don’t notice. Or at least they don’t say anything if they do.”
“Why not get it fixed then, if you knew?” Charlotte questioned, baffled by this odd situation she’d been presented with.
“What’s to be fixed?”
“Well, it’s broken, isn’t it?”
“Now that,” He gave a plaintive smile. “is an interesting question. Is it broken, though?”
“If it doesn’t tell the time correctly…” She couldn’t tell where the crazy old man was headed with this, but she had some time before her stop.
“Does any watch tell time correctly?” He asked more to himself than to her. “People made up the idea of time. It’s a concept. Plants don’t have alarm clocks and squirrels don’t use wristwatches. So what is in the world, is the question.”
“When you put it like that, I don’t really know.” This conversation was turning very odd, very quickly.
“No, I don’t suppose anyone really does.” He sighed, as if this truly upset him. “But if we don’t really know how time is supposed to pass, or if it even exists in itself, why are we all so quick to point out a broken clock?” Charlotte sat in her seat, speculating for a moment.
“Yes, I suppose that because time isn’t a real thing, all clocks could be considered broken.” She humored him for a moment, enjoying this rather philosophical chat more than most of her everyday ones.
“Exactly.” He gave a soft laugh. “To be frank, I quite like this watch more than regular ones. The tick is more relaxing.” He smiled sadly down at the pocketwatch in his left hand. “I suppose I am using time to my own purposes, as well.”
“Well, you’re certainly going to be late getting everywhere.” Charlotte nudged the man, finding that the melancholy on his face bothered her more than she would’ve thought. Chester was unusual, certainly, but kinder than most and surely not deserving of such sadness. “If you follow that watch, you’ll never make it anywhere on time.”
“Oh, I am an old man,” Chester said plainly back to her. “I have no use for time other than to watch it pass. Nowhere to be and nothing to do and no deadlines to meet. Time doesn’t have much use for me either, only to watch me wither.”
“Well that’s a pretty pessimistic view.” She said. “Are you here on this bus?”
“That is a silly question.”
“A silly question that should still be answered.”
“Then, yes I am.”
“Well, of course you’re on this bus.” Charlotte said with conviction. “So that means you’re going somewhere.”
“No particular place in mind.”
“Still somewhere.”
“True.” He conceded with a nod.
“And if you’re going somewhere, and you’re living and breathing, and even talking to people, are you not doing something?”
“I suppose I am.” His lips were twitching upwards.
“And even if you don’t have much use for time, you might think of getting that watch fixed.” Charlotte suggested. “I think if nothing else, it would appreciate it.”
“Giving human qualities to an object, are we Miss Wallace?”
“Maybe watches are a bit like people.”
“I think people are more like watches,” He said. “We live in a world full of watches.”
“That’s an interesting way to look at it.” Charlotte had not had a conversation this long or intriguing in who knows how long. “How are people like watches, Chester?”
“Everyone has a case,” He started out, looking at the silver still in his hand. “some are gold and silver, a bit flashy but pretty enough. Some carve designs on themselves that they think mean something and some are damaged, whether it be outside, or in their gears. They can be large, or small, or tick loudly or be silent. There are infinite numbers of ways they could look. And we all tick.”
“Hmm.” She gave a small sound of acknowledgment, pondering the words.
“But the thing is, we all tick in different ways. Slow or fast or somewhere in between.” He continued, not looking at her so much as past her. “It’s like you said earlier, though. If time doesn’t really exist, are not all clocks broken?
“There is no right way for clocks or people to tick, and yet we make one. We tell people and ourselves that there’s a certain way to be, a certain thing to be. We change clocks, and ourselves, fundamentally in pursuit of reaching that tick that’s supposed to be right, but there’s no such thing.”
“So the case of the pocket watch is how the person is presented in our eyes,” Charlotte contemplated. “and the tick is who we are.”
“Quite right.” Chester was smiling, looking at her again now. He held up the dented silver pocket watch and flicked it open, sharing the soft sound with just the two of them. “We try to change our tick, to fix ourselves, but we already live among those who will always be broken.”
Charlotte looked into his eyes, realizing for the first time that they were brown, and extremely sad for a reason she didn’t know.
“We live in a world of broken clocks, Miss Wallace,” He said softly. “And yet all of us are so quick to point out one that doesn’t tick right.” Charlotte was silent. Chester turned to face forward again, and tucked the silver watch into a pocket in his ill-fitted suit. She had nothing left to add to this conversation and sat there in restless thought. For once, she was content to leave a conversation where it hung. Well, mostly.
“This is my stop.” Charlotte spoke quietly to him several minutes later. “It was nice to meet you Chester Wing. I hope you can figure out where you’re going.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Charlotte Wallace.” He smiled, while standing up to allow her to exit the row. “I enjoyed our conversation and I am sure there is some place out there that will welcome a man with a few gears out of place.”
“If you’re looking for just anywhere, there’s certainly an abundance of coffee shops around here.” Charlotte joked, picking up her bag. “One of them is bound to take in a few strays. I should know. They’ve let me in a few times.”
“Until next time, Charlotte.” He said, with a little nod and a smile as she walked off the bus.
Charlotte was never one for much regret, if that’s what this was, but at the stop, she watched the bus leave with, oddly enough, a sense of finality. She never did meet Chester Wing again, unfortunately. She still took that same bus to and from work nearly every day, and looked boredly out the window, wishing time--that stupid, stupid idea of time--would move just a little faster.
She thought, just maybe, that one of those days, she saw someone walk into the front door of the ivy house. She thought, just maybe, that it was an old man in an old suit that didn’t fit quite right. But, Charlotte was probably mistaken. The front gate was still closed and stiff-looking, the ivy still overtook the walls and the walkway in front held no footprints. It was as if, inside that black-iron cage of a fence, nothing was touched, or moved, nothing was clipped or trimmed, nothing was disturbed or fixed. Nothing was changed, as if inside that looping iron, time stood still.