Almost Six
by Andrew MacDonald

He’s looking at me in wonderment, disbelief. His is a face ripe with skepticism, snaking around the corner and through the crack of the door. Must he stand there, peaking at me with the ridiculous notion that I cannot see him, that somehow he is invisible to me? I can see you, clear as day.

-

Look at that old fool, hunched over his desk. He hasn’t bathed in God knows how long. His stink offends me. But still, a man mustn’t treat his own father like a common vagabond or wino. I must be patient. Why does he insist on spending every waking hour staring at that broken down piece of decrepit filth? The hands stopped moving decades ago, when I was still in school. There are days that I have to fight off the urge to get my crowbar and some grease to pry him from it. This is sick; he’s sick. A sick old man. My dad.

-

I’m touching it. You can see me, and I know it bothers you, son. Here, look! I am petting it, stroking it gently like lovers do. Shall I kiss it? Would you like me to stand up and wrap my arms around its faded wooden base, pressing my lips against the tarnished brass? I can see even me thinking about it incites such strife in you, boy. I can see your face reflected in its dusty pane of glass. You can stand there, clandestine, hiding in the doorway. You won’t have to wait very long. Look – it’s almost six o’clock.

-

He’s gone mad, I’m sure of it. Mary thinks I should call the hospital up on the hill and get him locked up, away from those of us who are still sane, away from me. She says he is bad for me, that my hairs are graying from dealing with his demented obsession with that Godforsaken clock. If only mother were here. She would straighten him out quicker than all beat hell.

-

Dinner will be ready soon, son. Your mother is making a special dinner tonight, I’m sure of it. A special recipe, you know – passed down from generation to generation. She’s told me the story thousands of times, and, even though it annoys me to no end, I still listen. I nod my head and smile. If you ever get married, that will be one of the first lessons you will learn. Nod and smile. Nod and smile. I can smell the roast, son. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. Your mother’s a fine cook, you know. Very fine. A full figured woman, too. Ask anybody in town, and they’ll tell you how lucky I am. They’ll tell you – every last one of them. Dinner will be ready at six o’clock, she said. Six o’clock.

-

Maybe Mary is right; maybe it is time to put a stop to this. He’s pushing sixty-five. I don’t know if I can handle him anymore. No regard – none – for the kinds of sacrifices we have made for him. He lives under our roof, eating our food. Hell, we even hauled that piece of junk in here, simply for his sake. It was a burden right from the start, but never once did he thank us. Maybe we are being too solicitous. The thing takes up far too much space, Mary thinks, and the sight of it ruins everything. Ambience – that’s what Mary had called it. The broken down old clock ruins the ambience. Bad karma. Negative aura. He’s so tense, and that worthless clock bleeds its negativity everywhere.

-

Have a seat, son. Take a load off. How was school? Learned yourself some arithmetic, eh boy? Your old man used to be one hell of a mathematician, if you don’t mind me bragging. You don’t mind, do you son? Sit right here on my lap. Supper will be ready soon. Your mother promised us a heck of a meal. She’s too good for me, you know. I don’t think I tell you that enough, or her. I’ll tell her at dinner. It’s almost six o’clock. Five more minutes. Not long to wait. Five more minutes ‘till six o’clock. Come over here son, don’t be shy. Take a load off.

-

I can’t take this anymore. Tomorrow the clock is going. We’ll go for a drive, and when we’re gone George and Sam will haul it out to the junk heap outside of town. Smash it into a million pieces. Do whatever you want to it, boys – that’s what I’ll tell them. Smash it into a million pieces. You’ll be doing me a favor.

-

It’s almost time. Almost time. Five more minutes, son. Supper will be ready soon. She really is too good for us, son, slaving for us night and day like she does. When those hands strike six, I want you to give your mother a big hug and tell her how much she means to you. How much she means to me. Tell her that.

-

Yes. Tomorrow George and Sam will take your garbage out, where it belongs, dad.

-

It’s almost six o’clock son. Almost six. Almost six. Almost six. Five more minutes.

-

Into the trash heap.