Complication

Michael knocked on Stanley Post’s door. There was no answer, so he followed the walkway that led around the side of the house. The morning had lifted the sky a little higher and some blue could be seen among the gray. The ground was still wet and flower petals were pasted to the concrete. Tree branches hung low, dripping the last bit of water from their leaves. A strong smell of wet bark filled Michael’s nose. One thing he had to admit: rainy nights made wonderful mornings.

  Michael knocked on the side door. A muffled reply came from inside.

  “Hello.” Michael called, and knocked again. He heard the muffled voice a second time and pushed the door open a crack to peek inside. “Hello, Mr. Post?” He saw Stanley sitting at a work bench. A shaded bulb hung over his head, shedding a cone of light on the back of his neck. His hands worked over a bright clean platform. The rest of the room was dimly lit, occupied by clocks of different kinds. The walls were covered with them. The floor was no less crowded - grandfather clocks standing everywhere. Michael could hear an army of ticking and tocking.

  “Come in,” Stanley said, “I'll just be a second and I'll be with you.” He lowered his head to look more diligently through a magnifying glass. “There,” he said, and set down the miniature tools that were concealed in his hands.

  He led Michael to a corner of the room where there were fewer clocks, a folding table and a refrigerator. Stanley took a pitcher from the fridge and poured himself some water. He showed the pitcher to Michael, who shook his head at it. Stanley looked as if he hadn't slept - as if he'd been bent over his workbench all night. He sat down and took off his glasses.

  “What are you working on?” Michael asked politely.

  “That is sort of top secret,” he said with a chuckle, “Although, if you read the papers, you may be able to venture a guess.” He held a tired yet proud smile. “I'm so glad you came. I really am.”

  “I haven't agreed to anything yet,” Michael reminded him.

  “Right.”

  “Mr. Post -”

  “You can call me Stanley.”

  “Mr. Post, I understand that this watch may be important to you, personally, because, well...” He looked around the shop and saw his point hanging on every wall. “But, I have to ask: why is this personal to me?”

  “Let me answer by asking a question. Why are you a bookbinder?”

  Michael answered quickly. “I chose to be. I mean, I wanted to make books. We have a few good clients and business is doing alright.” Stanley was already shaking his head.

  “I'm sure business is just fine, but that's not what I mean.” Stanley reached for his glasses and put them back on his face. “Are you even aware that your great-great-grandfather was a leather stocker?” Michael nodded his head.

  “Yeah, and my father owned several leather shops. I was to inherit them, but my interests were elsewhere. He sold them all before he died.” Michael raised his hands and shrugged. “As I said, I chose binding.”

  “But, your father owned leather shops because his father did, and his father owned a leather mill and his father owned many leather mills. Your grandfather, far back, sold leather to the wealthy business men in the city and there wasn't anyone in the provinces, no matter how poor, who didn't own Bandolier leather - shoes, bags, jackets, furniture...” Michael had to cut him off.

  “Mr. Post, just because you want to be a watch tinkerer like your father doesn’t mean that everyone wants to follow in their father's footprints.” His foot tapped impatiently on the floor. “Now, please, how does all this answer my question? Why me?”

  Stanley sat back and clinched at his chin. “The band of the mayor’s watch is Bandolier leather, custom made and imprinted by your great-great....”

  “And that's why you thought I would hunt down this watch?” Michael interrupted.

  “So you didn't come here to accept the offer?”

  “No, I did. I just happen to be curious enough, and I thought maybe there would be some money involved, especially because this is not the mayor’s watch.” He tossed the paper Stanley had given him, which fluttered to a stop on the table.

  Stanley Post rubbed his stubbly, rounded jaw. He grabbed a pen from a cup and scribbled on the sheet, pushed it back. “That’s the money involved - more if you succeed.” Michael took a glance, then swiped the paper up, stuffing it into his pocket.

  Stanley reached inside his jacket and pulled out two tickets. “You should leave right away,” he said as he slid them over to Michael. They were for two separate cabins on the Cork Wheel, a boat that regularly ferried to the Great City and back. Michael stared down at them.

  “I know I'm going,” Michael said. “Who is the other ticket for? Will you be joining me?”

  “No, I won't be able to come along. I am very busy on a project. The second ticket is for anyone of your choosing. I thought some assistance would be helpful.”

  Michael scooped the tickets up and added them to the other paper in his pocket. Of course he would take Debora; he couldn't imagine anyone more helpful than her. “Perfect,” he said. “Is there anything else I'll need to know?”

  “Just be where you’re supposed to be, and you’ll do fine.”

  Michael patted his pocket, where he had stuffed the tickets. “I got it.”

  At the door he paused and looked back. Stanley was taking a slow drink from his glass of water. Michael saw the broken watch face tipping up. He looked again at the army of clocks on the walls, all ticking in unison. “Mr. Post,” he said, “I have to ask, why do you wear that broken watch?”

  Stanley finished sipping from his glass and set it down with a soft clank. “That is a story for a more appropriate time,” he said.

  Michael was happy to leave the workshop. When he reached the open air, he realized just how dizzying and rhythmic the ticking of the clocks had been. For a moment, he wondered if they had hypnotized him into accepting the offer. There was something off kilter about the entire thing, but Michael still found himself lured to it. Of course, there was the compensation that Stanley Post was willing to pay, but maybe there was something about the Bandolier leather after all. Michael knew, deep down, he was going to take the offer without pay.