Tick … Tick … Tick …

By David Daniel

I am haunted by clocks.

Last weekend brought the semiannual conspiracy of mass self-deception wherein we pretend to alter the space/time continuum. Sure, I know. It’s good to have a little more daylight at the end (or the beginning) of the day. And what does it cost, really? A small disruption in sleep, maybe a late appointment or two, and a meager expenditure of effort as we reset clocks. Because I rarely look at clocks, however—one of the perks of retirement—this would not be a big deal, but there are those in my household, nameless here, who attend to time assiduously, and for whom an inaccurate clock is anathema. So in the interests of peace, local if not world, I set about synchronizing our house with the others in this small corner of the galaxy.

Fortunately, technologies have alleviated some of the burden. As I walk through the house, phone in hand as guide, I recognize that the television and several computers have quietly taken care of this themselves. Their small glowing eyes wink at me, as if to say, “No worries, bro, gotcha covered.” But there are other clocks that do need my assistance. There’s the stove, the microwave, the Cuisinart coffeemaker, and the Bose Wave radio (I know; so yesterday), each with its own digital display and method for adjustment. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

The work comes with the wall and table clocks. There’s at least one in every room. These are battery-powered analog clocks in many styles. They require a step stool and, in one case, a stepladder. There is a  clock that wouldn’t look out of place hanging in South Station, and one resembling a stem-winder pocket watch the March Hare might have left behind in his haste. There’s a faux antique desk clock with Roman numerals. In the foyer stands a tall cabinet clock that my dear father, may he rest in peace, built by hand from a kit. It’s part of his legacy to us. Although the Westminster chimes were a bit much, I always found the steady tick-tock soothing, but I don’t bother setting it anymore. All those chains and counter weights and the frequent rewinding. . . . It’s right twice a day and that’s enough. On its brass face is a reminder: Tempus Fugit.

There’s one other clock that even thinking about makes me break out in flop sweat. The dashboard clock in my car.

The car isn’t new enough to have the time-set be automatic, so this requires human  intervention. When I bought the car, certified pre-owned, for some reason the owner’s manual in the glovebox was  for the same make and model but one year newer than my car. In the changeover year, although the vehicles are identical in almost every other way, the clocks are not. According to the manual, the process is painless: press this, tune that… voila! Yeah, if only. In truth, performing the two-step process described in the manual does nothing. And when you try it again, more nothing—beyond calling to mind that oft-given definition of insanity (Einstein?) as doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

There isn’t anything intuitive about setting my dashboard clock. It’s the antithesis of intuitive. So, because there’s an answer to every question there, I go to the internet. I enter the make, model, and year and watch a 13-minute YouTube video on how to reset my clock. It involves manipulating buttons on the panel, toggling this, poking that, twisting the other a specified number of turns. It’s a process so convoluted that it takes me repeated watchings and even then it feels like trial and error. And as for recalling it six months later, fuggedaboutit. So instead of wasting all that mental bandwidth twice a year, and since I’m usually alone in my car, I do nothing for as long as I can. I simply make the mental one-hour addition or subtraction. If the occasional passenger sometimes expresses dismay—“Omigod! The time! We’re gonna be late! – I calm them with gentle words.

But none of us is ever fully absolved of time. As the poet of old wrote… “. . . at my back I always hear/ Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near…” Generally, at some point in the six months between time changes, having fallen far enough in own estimation of myself as a competent individual who can set an effin’  dashboard clock! I go back to YouTube and then through trial and error do finally reset the dashboard clock. After last fall I managed to avoid this until just a few weeks ago, so the clock showed the right time for about a month. Now it’s wrong again.

Like many, I have attempted to understand time. Once I picked up Stephen Hawkings’ book A Brief History of Time, and over the course of some weeks, I went at it, always hopeful I was on the brink of discovery. But finally—around page 300—I gave up. Those hours might as well have fallen among thieves. I haven’t checked to see if there’s a YouTube video.

Just last week my friend Stephen O’Connor, whom some of you will know from his clever writings on this forum, told me it was his birthday. It was a number, he said with a note of woe, ending with a nine. Stephen is a raconteur of great skill and Hibernian charm. He told me that once, at a wake, he expressed to his friend Jay Linnehan that he was dreading turning 70 because then he’d know the next whistle stop was 80. Linnehan, who has a background in accounting, and his own Hibernian wit, said, “No, Steve, the next whistle stop is 71.”

I had a birthday last month which, too, ended in a nine. Next year, the Good Lord willing, that particular clock will reset to zero. I try to avoid thinking about whistle stops. Still, as with the grand delusion of saving daylight, I know it’s a mind game. Remember the Twilight Zone episode titled “Time Enough at Last”? Where Burgess Meredith plays a milquetoast little guy with coke-bottle eyeglasses, a harried-by-life bookworm who wants only to be left in peace to read. And he finally gets his wish . . . for a short time.