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“I collect them,” he said.
“I can see that,” I said, trying not to smile. “I meantwhy do you collect them?”
“Oh!” He sat, straddling his desk chair backwards. “People always think about their lives in these huge chunks—days, weeks, years. But really, life is made up of moments, of minutes that change your life. I use the clocks to mark and remember those important minutes.” He paused. “Now that I’ve said it out loud, it sounds so dumb—”
“No, it doesn’t. I get it. I collect my special moments in a journal.”
He looked unconvinced.
“So, each of these clocks is a memory?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s that one?” I asked, pointing to a yellow Bakelite clock.
He smiled. “That was the first time I had a wet dream—and realized I was becoming a man.”
I didn’t ask for details, for if he was like me—and he was—I knew what the dream entailed.
“So, what about that one?” I asked, this time pointing to a small square onyx one with a white enamel face and Roman numerals.
“That’s when I realized my father’s preaching was bullshit.”
“So, the preacher’s kid doesn’t believe?”
“Not in the Church or the Bible or my father’s words, no. Do you?”
“No. All that talk of heaven and hell and fire and damnation is annoying as heck. And it’s just theatrics.”
“You really think so? You don’t think there is a heaven and hell?”
I shook my head. “Mr. Lewisohn down at the store is Jewish. He told me once Jews don’t believe in heaven and hell. So, I asked him how they made people do the right thing.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said the whole point of Judaism was that it taught you to do the right thing, the moral thing, simply because it was therightthing, themoralthing to do.”
He nodded slowly.
I changed the subject. “And that clock?” I asked. This one was a stepped alabaster clock, like a small monument.
“That one marks the first time I noticed you.”
“When was that?”
He closed his eyes. “It was sophomore year. We had gym. We were playing softball. As usual, you were chosen last and put in the outfield where you couldn’t do any damage. I’ll never forget, you were sitting on this big rock reading. Anyway, this guy hit the ball and sent it flying towards the outfield. Everyone was yelling at you to catch the ball—you didn’t even have a glove. You looked up at all the screaming and then went back to reading your book as the ball landed behind you. It was so clear you didn’t give a crap.”
I laughed. “I didn’t. Still don’t.”
“Anyway, it ended up being a homerun for the other team and Lidell, our team’s captain, was pissed. He walked up to you and shoved you off the rock. You fell, of course, and he was leaning over you yelling. Instead of getting up, you raised your foot and kicked him square in the balls. He doubled over on the ground holding his junk. You picked up your book, got back on yourrock, glanced at him as if you’d just taken out the trash, and went back to reading. Everyone was laughing and screaming.”
I smiled, remembering the incident. “I remember that day. Ihategym. And Lidell.”
Jackson nodded, then, gesturing at his clocks, said, “Do you think I’m pathetic?”
“Because you collect clocks?” When he nodded, I said, “It’s not pathetic. I told you I keep a journal so I remember the important moments in my life. It’s the same thing as collecting clocks, really.”
“Have you written about me in your journal?” he asked.
