The Timekeeper.

And if they have leave
To pray, it is for contentment
If the feet of the dove
Perch on the scythe's handle,
Perch once, and then depart
Their knowledge. After, they wait
Only the colder advent,
The quenching of candles.

- Philip Larkin.


The Timekeeper waits. A steady drip falls from his dangling black shoes into a puddle of melted snow, but soon the procession will begin, so the puddle only grows. His left hand is poised and ready, hovering just above the two buttons worn to little bowls over the years. His right hand slowly, lovingly - as one pets an old cat - strokes his white mustache. He glances back up at the digital clock that sits above his head on the shelf beside the surveillance monitor for the thirty-ninth time that minute (10:10 am). She's not due to arrive for another twenty, twenty-five minutes, but already his stomach is opening with anticipation, like a flower gulping down the morning sun.

Thirty-three years ago to the day, he was hired as the day-shift back door man at The Club. In thirty-three years he's had only two sick days. On Thursday, September the 18th, 2008 his upper lip suddenly and quite arbitrarily became infected and swelled up three times its usual size, costing him two days pay (he missed the following day, Friday, September the 19th, 2008, too), an immaculate attendance record, and (briefly) his beloved mustache, which he'd had since he could grow one - save for his days in the service. In thirty-three years he's never been late to his post at The Club and he's never left early, and often he stays longer than he is scheduled to as some of the evening shift back door men The Club has employed over the years haven't had the same amount of respect for their jobs as he does. And in the thirty-three years he's been employed at The Club he's granted admission to and checked the bags upon the departure of over three thousand of his co-workers, and can remember most - if not all - of their names.

The first twenty-seven years account for little more than cheap plaques awarded to him by The Club commemorating his dedication in five year installments and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of poems he'd written at his post. But none of those poems written in the first twenty-seven years have the candor or the emotion of the single poem he's been struggling to write since she first rang the doorbell and entered his life six years ago.

It was last night, while laying in bed, reading by himself (as he always does), that he decided he would finally confess his love to his love. She was his muse, but not in the traditional sense. Before she walked into his life, he was a common man, a happy man. In his poems he celebrated the mundane. He wrote about the tabby that every night sat silhouetted in his neighbor's window, or the fading hopscotch game on the sidewalk in front of his house, or the first green tomato bulbs hanging in his back garden. He'd written canto after canto about the symmetry of pouring water, the prickly feeling of blood returning to a limb that has fallen asleep, the smell of leaves dying in the wind. He was prolific and satisfied. His poems were meditations, solely for himself. But when he was confronted with real, living beauty, the intense, burning beauty that was her, the rest of the world lost its focus, its luster. He hasn't written a poem since. The only thing he'd want to write about now, he can't, wouldn't know how to even begin. He's tried, many, many times, but nothing ever comes. But it would come. He knew it would come; but first he must clear the air, tell her how he feels. She'll come in and he'll stand up and declare: "I love you, my sweet! I have always loved you! Since I first laid eyes on you, I have longed to hold you and kiss you and pet your lovely, blond hair. Come with me, my love! Let us leave this place and never look back!" And if she would, they could; he'd saved over the years, as saving is easy when you live alone without vice or venture.

He looks at the digital clock again. It reads 10:11 am in blocky, green letters which quake suddenly as the shrill report of the doorbell cuts the cold air. A hooded figure, much too tall to be her, stands framed in the door's window, slanting, falling snow in relief. The doorbell sounds again, an impatient refrain; a heated sigh splashes the glass window with an obscuring fog; The Timekeeper waits patiently, his finger ready on the topmost of the two worn down buttons. A gloved hand quickly pulls back the hood, and two familiar eyes burn into his own from the other side of the clouded glass.

"Good morning, Mr. Thomas," The Timekeeper says to the young man who enters and walks straight past him, a cold, tobacco-scented ghost in tow. "The time is 10:12 am." The young man, forgetting his manners, tortured by his own chimeras, doesn't reply or say "thank you," only stands before the corkboard where the day's schedule hangs crucified by thumbtacks, searching for his name and charge.

The Timekeeper discards the wet paper towel in the wastebasket and perches once again on his stool to wait for her arrival. The leader of The Three Musketeers (as The Timekeeper calls them), Mr. Thomas always arrives first(10:12 am), then Mr. Brecht and Mr. O'Connor usually arrive together (10:57 am) just before their shifts start. Between the two extremes of the arrivals of the first and the other two Musketeers, the rest of the waitstaff comes - excluding those who are already at The Club and have worked breakfast, and those who don't work the lunch shift at all and only work dinners or weekends or out-parties. She works lunch every day, however, and dinners most. Though her arrival times are inconsistent, as she usually gets a ride to work from her ex-boyfriend, so there's no telling when her slender finger might fall on the outside entry button.

The procession begins. The door bell sings in a steady cadence. Shivering, snow-crested black frocks and ulsters and burgundy redingotes and grey double-breasted paddocks pass, and stomp, and complain of their respective daily charges; numb, red fingers tap away at the punch-in computer's face; hexes and curses are hurled and cast at the finger print scanner; aprons are tied from the front, and twisted around, and set on bulging, fragile hips; bow ties are fastened, and leveled around burnt red necks; gossip comes out as lipstick goes on; and all the while The Timekeeper waits, waits for his love to arrive.

Just as the mob is slowly funneling out the door to the gilded domain of the city's aristocracy to sit in the dimly lighted unused dining room to be read their daily charges as a group of convicted criminals is read their sentences by the groggy, cantankerous judge, just as all this is about to happen, the doorbell rings, and not only The Timekeeper turns to see her long, blond hair blowing around her smiling face. Quickly, The Timekeeper gnashes the button and she enters with a wintry gust.

She floats up the stairs, lithe and burning with a perennial glow. Following her extended left arm, as if led by a spectral suitor, she hurries into the room, where are the all the waitresses are waddling about excitedly. The waiters, in their stained, ill-fitting tuxedos, grumble and push through the door, entirely indifferent. "Oh my god, look how pretty!" cries one of the waitresses. The wan sunlight ignites the diamond on the finger of The Timekeeper's love, setting off an explosion of envy and mirth from the other women. "But how?" they cry, "I thought you two were broken up." "Oh, Vegas is beautiful in May," they say, "You'll just love the Strip!"

The Timekeeper sits, his back to the commotion. He picks up his pen and starts writing something down. At first, he's not sure what he's doing, his hand seems to be working beside him, working furiously, writing something. He looks at the paper after his hand has been idle for a moment, the waitresses still carrying on behind him, and reads what he's written. In black ink, smeared by his hand, the poem reads:

Flat soles and numb toes
Kept me out of the war,
Keep me out
Of the cold.

"Good morning, David," she sings to The Timekeeper, her beaming, almost dumb gaze fixed on the touch screen monitor.
"Good morning, Miss Stevens," The Timekeeper says, "The time is 10:56 am."