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."

Review of katebush by Primitive Bush.

(Hey Marty, sorry I didn't have time to edit it, dude. I'm like falling asleep. I think you get the basic gist. Work your usual magic. And yes, I do cross maybe a few boundaries, but I'm pretty sure they'll be fine. Take whatever liberties you must, though - I understand. Tell Tori and the girls I said hi or whatever. Merry Christmas also. - D.)

I remember in grad school I had this roommate named John. I'll say nothing in print about his character, but I will tell you of one of his habits, possibly his most irksome to me. He would sneak into my room while I was gone (I'm getting chills just thinking about it) and he would touch my love. He would pick her up, play her with his awful dirty hands, knocking her all out of tune, and he would write songs, these godawful, drunk-prick-at-the-campfire ballads. "Hey dude, real quick: just check this song out," he'd say when I'd come home, catching him in the act. (Though, on the occasions that I didn't return home and he was afforded the opportunity to cover his tracks, he did as such, but his methods were mind-boggling, totally preposterous. You don't throw an orgy to cover up lipstick on your collar. You don't turn over my desk to put the pick back. I'd mention it in passing - as he passed me to "bum" something of mine in the refrigerator while I did the dishes - and he'd say: "I don't know, dude. You ask the cats?") But I'd listen to the songs. I don't know why - morbid curiosity? Admittedly, I still get "If You Were a Dude" stuck in my head, but for the most part his songs were some of the worst I'd ever heard; often I wondered how a grown man could be so out of touch with reality, so oblivious to everything. Yet he was. And that brings me to my point: so is this band, Primitive Bush.

When Marty asked me if I wanted to do a last-minute album review - "just a quick eight hundred worder" - before the Christmas issue went out, I said "sure" and figured I'd just stay at home some night and get paid to jam a record, drink a little tea, and kill that bottle of black label I bought myself to celebrate my son's first year alive on this terrible planet. "Great!" Marty said, "I'll drop the tape off later. You gonna be home?" Tape? As in cassette? Are you kids serious? If you wanna be retro, put it on wax. Cassettes were a digression in the evolutionary journey of sound, the stumble between analog and digital. However, I am a professional music listener and I do have the means to listen to a cassette tape - though I have almost zero understanding of how they work. So - you know - my girl left to go see The Blind Side or something, and I stayed home and got drunk with my son (he wasn't drinking, I promise that's just a dangling modifier) and jammed katebush, the debut album by Austin's Primitive Bush. As I put in the tape, I said to myself: If this band sucks then so does this album title; but if they rule then so does this album title.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing could've prepared me for what I heard when the tape came on. It was John, the ass I lived with back in Pittsburgh for almost three years, and some girl, some - I don't know? - girl. But it was John! It was sneak-into-my-room-and-molest-my-stuff John! Apparently he had met a girl, founded a band (possibly these first two could be switched, I'm not sure; I know I usually do my homework on this stuff, but I couldn't bring myself to this time, whatever) , named it Primitive Bush, (somehow) got a record deal and cut a ten song album since I'd last spoken with him about four years ago. He ended up in Austin somehow, too, I guess. Last I heard he was possibly doing time for possession. Had he fled and started a band? I flipped through the liner notes - John's unmistakable nasally baritone bellowing the opening track "Long-haired Alleycat" in the background -but found nothing. Really? Had John finally learned the simple art of discretion? Was this some kind of Chestertonian joke providence was playing on me? I was certain the idiot playing guitar and singing in a flat maudlin affectation was John, but I could find no proof. Usually labels or bands give you these things we in the biz call "one sheets." The purpose of the one sheet is to provide useful information to the reviewer, DJ, label executive, etc., information such as the biography and the history of the band/artist, influences of the band/artist, current record sales, countries thus visited/rocked, plans for the immediate and distant future ( but not beyond the myopic vision of the fanbase), and sometimes interviews from zines are included, and the listener is given a peak at the psyche of the band/artist. Primitive Bush actually had a one sheet. At least I got a one sheet. Whether or not anyone else who reviewed or promoted this album got a one sheet, I am not sure, for my one sheet was a custom one sheet. It was addressed directly to me, signed John Prince. It ran: "Told you."

An attempt at sketching perfection.

I was down in the basement looking for a human pile of shit to show Tim. Goddamnit! everything of mine that I haven't sold to The Exchange for a quick couple of bucks for a warm meal has been ruined anyway by cat litter or flood. But then I found you. All four of you. Down south in the early summer's sun with blonde hair - ah! I never knew you with such golden features - doing some sort of cheer. In the first frame your forearms mirror your white v-neck shirt as your breasts are pushed together and your countenance seems to say: 'WHA!' in a coquettish, peppy sort of way. The second frame shows a similar position with the arms, but composure is lost somewhat in the countenance: the brow is focused, the face is in a delightful sneer. I struggle to write this now as I am transfixed on the third frame. This was the frame that brought the first tear from my eye. Your teeth are hidden behind your pinched face, but I don't mind because you look so goddamn happy; and the sun is shining brighter in this frame than any of the other three - so much, in fact, that it burns out the focus a little, makes your black capris seem dark grey and lined with light pink lines. I cannot even begin to accurately describe the fourth frame. To look at it hurts. You're radiant. You're perfection. And what is this? Just a quick sketch; a way to get over the little heart break it caused me when I found it among my dusty, old death metal records.