By Dwayne Phillips
January 6th, 2008, 2008-001
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The second hand on his watch crawled past 9PM.
“How long have I been here?” he thought to himself.
The answer was five minutes. God. Five minutes! Five minutes! It had to be longer than that. Toby looked at his watch again. It was hard to see in the flickering light of the fire. It now read 9PM and 15 seconds. Wow. Five minutes and 15 seconds. At this rate I will be here the rest of my life.
I didn’t want to be here – that was an understatement. Fred did this to me – again. Toby knew he had to stop blaming Fred for these evenings, but blaming Fred was easier than taking responsibility for himself.
Fred had a suspended license. He had too many DUI’s, and the Judge allowed him only the privilege of driving to and from class. The Judge, however, didn’t suspend Fred’s social life. That was still running faster than Toby’s and everyone else he knew, actually more than the sum of everyone Toby knew. Toby always drove Fred to Fred’s select social events.
“You’ll love this one.” That is what Fred told Toby half a dozen times earlier today. “Sure, it’s a hokie old-fashioned bon fire, hot dog shin dig out in the sticks, but the chicks love those stupid things. They will be all over us.”
From the looks of things, Fred was half right. He was running about somewhere in the fire-lit night with a couple of young ladies in short skirts and tee shirts. It was a summer evening and there was this big fire. You couldn’t expect young ladies to wear wool overcoats to these things.
Fred was only half right. Toby was leaning up against something – he wasn’t sure what it was – some sort of farm tool thing that a farmer would pull behind a tractor or pickup truck. Toby always spent Fred’s evenings out leaning against something while Fred frolicked with a young lady or two.
Maybe this evening would be shorter than most. Fred looked to be getting lucky sooner than usual. Perhaps one or both of the young, short-skirted ladies would have a car and invite Fred somewhere.
“Then I could go home,” thought Toby.
Gasp. Toby found himself wishing Fred good fortune with the ladies so he could exit himself, go home, and – well just go to sleep.
“Yeah, Fred needs me wishing good fortune. He has all the fortune with the ladies that he and a team of guys needs.”
“What?”
Toby looked up from his watch. That was a voice from someone else asking “what?” Toby must have said the “Yeah” line out loud instead of in his mind.
Toby slowly raised his eyes to the height occupied by the rest of the human race. He saw a young lady a few paces away leaning against some other thing that farmers must pull.
“Oh nothing, just mumbling about my watch. It’s an old analog kind with a second hand that ticks its way around. I was just winding it. You still have to wind this kind.” Toby let out this speech as if he were briefing Congress. Why did he do that?
Toby found himself shifting his position. He walked a little towards Miss What. He wasn’t sure how far he walked. It was a little more than comfortable. Long enough to wonder why he had done it. He was still leaning against the same farm implement thing as before, but now on a different chunk of it.
The young lady continued to lean against here farm implement thing. She looked at the fire while Toby made his Congressional speech about second hands on analog watches that needed winding and sauntered over with the grace of someone with rocks in his shoes. She wasn’t much to look at. Not like the two, or was it now three, slim young ladies with short skirts that were trotting around with Fred. The third one that Fred had acquired was wearing a cut-off tee shirt that revealed much of an enticing midriff.
The young lady wasn’t much to look at.
“Gee wiz,” thought Toby – he was sure that this was a silent thought, not something said aloud, “she’s wearing a long-sleeve sweatshirt on a warm evening next to a fire.” She was also wearing jeans – full-length jeans – and New Balance shoes. Toby could see the New Balance “N” reflecting the fire.
“I didn’t know they made those watches anymore.” The sweatshirt said.
“Yeah, well they don’t. I found this one in a pawn shop near school. I liked old things that work well.” Toby let out with as little hint of caring or earnestness that he could squelch.
Toby wasn’t sure what he was doing. He was having a conversation with a young lady wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and shoes while standing next to a fire. They were talking about analog watches or something like that. When will some of these chicks pull Fred into their car so I can go home?
Toby lost track of time. The one consolation of these evenings with Fred was the food. Fred had promised that this country bon fire would have hot dogs. You know, that good old weenie roast thing. Toby liked hot dogs. He always did. Well, the cooked kind of hot dogs. The boiled ones didn’t count for anything.
The best hot dogs Toby ever ate were at his grandmother’s house. Toby was ten or eleven that summer. His grandmother had a gas stove where the flames came out of the stove-top burners. Toby would put a hot dog wiener on a fork, turn on the burner, and roast the wiener over the indoor fire. While doing so, the wiener would spit and drip fat on the stove top making an awful mess. Grandmother didn’t mind. She quietly cleaned the mess when Toby was done with a smile on her face all the while. Toby’s mother didn’t react the same way when she saw Toby cook his wiener at the end of the summer. She came to fetch Toby, but allowed him to stay for one more lunch. Toby wished they had left before mom saw him cook that last wiener. Life would have been better had this hot dog habit remained between him and Grandmother alone.
“Do you know if there are any hot dogs here to eat?” blurted Toby as he came out of his fond memory of Grandmother and the stove-top wiener roasts.
That must not have been the thing to say. The girl with the sweatshirt curled her eyebrows. She then crossed her arms snugly to show a little more disdain for the hot dog question.
“My bud told me there would be hot dogs here this evening. I really like hot dogs roasted over a fire.” Continued Toby.
The sweatshirt girl hunched into herself a little more. Toby gathered that talk of hot dogs wasn’t for this girl. What was the big deal with her?
Toby looked down at his watch to wind the stem a little more. The watch had started this little chat, so winding it would be the natural thing to do.
There was something wrong with the watch. It now read 9:30PM. Toby had been talking with the sweatshirt girl for half an hour. What were they discussing? What was the topic? How could Toby get a synopsis and get back on track?
“The hot dogs ran out about 8:30,” said the sweatshirt.
That was the second statement Toby heard from her. “She must have said a lot more in the last half hour,” thought Toby. “I wonder what any of it was?”
“8:30?” exhaled Toby. “Fred told me this started at 9.”
“Is that your friend’s name?”
“Who?” puzzled Toby.”
“Fred? Is your friend’s name Fred. You know, the guy making time with my friends?” continued the sweatshirt.
“Oh, Fred,” stammered Toby. “Yeah, Fred, that is his name. Are those young ladies your friends? Did they come with you?”
“Yes, they came with me,” replied the sweatshirt, leaning heavily on the word me.
“Gee,” thought Toby, “what’s with her?”
“You know, Ashley, Carmen, and Samantha. You’ve been asking about them for the past half hour.” Spouted the sweatshirt with a curl of the bottom lip.
Toby stopped. He stopped thinking about hot dogs; he stopped wondering what happened to the last half hour; he stopped everything. He tried to think. He tried to stop thinking of hot dogs at Grandmother’s and start thinking of something to say.
Sweatshirt must have a name. Toby kept thinking of her as “sweatshirt.” That wouldn’t do. Winding his watch every 30 seconds wouldn’t do.
“My name is Toby,” started Toby. “I’m here because my bud Fred has a suspended license and he talked me into coming here to give him a ride,” the words kept pouring out of Toby’s mouth with little regard for consequence. “I was bored to death until we started talking. I have lost the last half hour and don’t remember anything we have said. I would love to know your name.” There, he said it all at once. What would happen now?
“Becky. Rebecca, but everyone calls me Becky,” she replied calmly. Her arms unfolded and she pushed the sleeves of her sweatshirt above her elbows in one smooth motion. Her smooth movement continued as her shoulders rose and her head rolled from side to side. A smile came across her face. “I’m glad to know your name as well.”
Oxygen returned to Toby’s lungs. His head cleared. Light seemed to ease into the evening. Sweatshirt, that is Becky, looked different. Her straightened posture pulled her sweatshirt across her torso revealing a slim, fit body. Her smiled beamed lighting up the two bluest eyes Toby had ever seen.
“Becky. Becky,” mentioned Toby quietly.
“Yes, Becky,” she answered.
“Becky, Becky,” continued Toby.
“Yes, you’ve said it four times now. Making up for the past?”
“Uh, oh, uh no,” stammered Toby. “I’m not sure what I’m saying.”
“Perhaps you can tell me about your watch. You seem to be fiddling with it constantly,” she encouraged.
“Oh yeah, this watch. Did I tell you it is an analog watch. The second hand ticks several times each second, and I have to wind it at least once each 24 hours.”
Toby described the workings of his watch. It was made in Switzerland. It wasn’t one of the famous names, so it wasn’t overpriced. Reliable, accurate, far beyond those other pricey Swiss watches. And it wasn’t one of those silly Swatches. Toby paused before he made the “silly Swatch” comment to note that Becky wasn’t wearing a Swatch.
Toby went on and on about the watch. It must have not been too painful for Becky as she listened intently to this young man’s infatuation with old Swiss watches. He was so earnest about this. Somewhere in what would have been a monologue except for a few “Aha’s” from her, he mentioned his grandparents were from Switzerland. This young man loved his grandparents. That was a bit charming.
Near the end of the lecture on Swiss watches one of the Ashley, Carmen, and Samantha squirmed up to Becky, mumbled to her closely, and took something from Becky’s hand.
Toby finished part one of his commentary on his watch (he had three more parts to go). He actually looked at the hands of the watch to see that it was now 10:30. Part one took an hour! At this rate…
“You do have a car?” Becky interrupted Toby’s calculations on watch lectures.
“What? Oh, yes I have a car. Why?”
“Well, Ashley just took the keys to my car, and I am on foot. It seems that Fred has enchanted all three of my friends into something, and he doesn’t have a car of his own. Fred must be something.”
“Yeah,” thought Toby. “Fred is really something.” Disgusted with Fred. Wait, this isn’t bad, this is good. Is this good? Yes, this is good. This is good.
“Well yes,” blurted Toby, much too fast. “This is a good thing that Ashley took your car. I have a car.”
Toby reconsidered what he just said Maybe that wasn’t the way to say it. The way to say what? What was Toby trying to say? What was he trying to do? What was he trying to be?
The second hand on the watch stopped moving. Toby was clenching inside. Was that hunger? It was 10:30 and he hadn’t eaten anything. Maybe it wasn’t hunger. Here was Becky laughing at something, her eyes glowing now. She was leaning on the same farmer, tractor thing he was. Sometime in the last hour she had moved over next to him. When did that happen? How did I miss that? That would have been significant.
“I mean, I have a car,” stammered Toby. “I can give you a ride, if you like,” the last three words trailing off into a fading fire.
“No,” considered Toby. “I’m not going to do this tonight. I am not going to be the brainy klutz this time. I am not going to be the distracted little puppy dog that girls find sweet.”
“Let me say that again,” started Toby with confidence. “I have a car. I want you to leave with me. We can find out where this takes us.”
“Wow! Did I say that?” he wondered.
“I can do that,” replied Becky calmly, but with a tinge of uncertainty.
“Would you like to go someplace where we can get a hot dog?” I love hot dogs. Have I told you about the summer I spent with my Grandmother and how she let me cook hot dog wieners on the stove top?”
“I would love to hear about your Grandmother. I wouldn’t mind a hot dog, but no hot dog stories.”
Go to Dwayne's Home Page
Email me at
d.phillips@computer.org