Complication



  Complication

  R.A. Graves

  One

  The drought was severe. Any amount of rain was a good omen. That is why all of Wind Quarry was happy to wake up to a wet and dreary day. Michael couldn’t help but think negatively: Once on the hard dry ground, it would be a curse, a flash flood. It’s not that it hadn’t been raining in Wind Quarry, but always less than was needed. Over time, that had a way of adding up.

  Michael splashed down the sidewalk in an expensive pair of leather shoes. They were handmade, medallion tipped with an imprinted inlay: you couldn't find things like that anymore. They set him back four hundred dollars. What he liked most about them was the embossed logo on the heel that marked them as Bandolier, the same as his last name.

  His forty dollar briefcase was tucked tightly under his arm. A five dollar umbrella, bought only out of necessity, kept him dry from the shoulders up. He flagged a cab with his elbow and was surprised at how fast one pulled to the curb.

  In the shelter of the cab, he felt the uncomfortable dampness of his clothes. Dropping his umbrella to the floorboard, he assessed the damage to his shoes, shuddered and sighed.

  “I need to know where you’re going,” the driver said.

  “Twenty Forty Chestnut,” Michael said. “Can you go fast? I’m already late.” The driver gave a passive smile.

  “You got it, buddy. You're already putting me off my typical route."

  As the cab pulled away, its sway lulled Michael back into tired thoughts of his ruined shoes. He should have worn a different pair.

  “Raining out?”

  Michael looked over and saw that he was sharing the cab with a middle-aged man in a thin, tattered gray jacket. His stringy hair matched his coat and an overly polished pair of gold rimmed glasses clung to his face. He was dry. One side of his collar stuck up, a product of sloppy dressing. His back was hunched forward, his stubbly face pointed down into his lap.

  “Yeah,” Michael said impolitely, lifting his arm to glance at his wrist. “Great.” He slapped his hand back to his damp leg. “Do you have the time?”

  The strange man did a double take and looked up from his hunched position. “Oh, no,” he said, “I don’t keep the time.”

  “Great,” Michael said again. He wiped the foggy window and peered out into the rain. He heard windshield wipers and tires in the wet street, the steady draining of the sewer grates. The dark shape of an airship passed overhead, cutting through clouds of the same color. Michael was surprised that anything was flying on such a day, but everyone had a place to be, and it didn’t matter what the weather was doing. It didn’t matter what time it was either; he was already late for work, and Debora probably didn’t really need him there anyway.

  “I’m Stanley,” the strange man said. His words came out with a heavy breath. Michael turned back.

  “Stanley who?”

  “Stanley Post.”

  “Michael Bandolier,” Michael said. He offered his hand out of habit. He left it in the air unshaken for only a moment before pulling it back.

  “Oh, how rude of me,” Stanley said, finally offering his own hand. Michael shook it skeptically. It was a weak, short shake. Along the edge of the man’s coat cuff, Michael saw an unmistakable black band with eyelets.

  “Is that a watch?”

  The man stuttered. “Yes, this is- Yes. It was a gift. I’m afraid you cannot have it. It’s all I have left.”

  Michael almost laughed. “I don’t want your watch. I want to know why you’re too stingy to share the time.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I asked you what time it was and you said you didn’t know.”

  Stanley crossed his arms tucking the watch into his armpit. “Yes, well, it is one o’ clock in the morning.”

  “Never mind,” Michael said going back to his rain splattered window.

  Stanley snorted a laugh. “Don’t be angry.” He held his arm out toward Michael then pulled back the cuff to reveal the watch face. Michael bent sideways to take a look. Broken. Three cracks, one of them nearly clean through the glass, showed as a thick white line. It read twelve minutes after one. Michael was almost astonished, but not amused.

  “My great grandfather was a watchmaker,” Stanley said. “All he had was time.” He laughed at his own joke. “So was my grandfather, my father too.”

  “And let me guess,” Michael said, “you are a watchmaker.”

  “There are no watchmakers these days. I would like to be. I should have been, but no one is where they’re supposed to be anymore.” He cupped his broken watch in his other hand. “Tell me,” he said, “do you believe in destiny?”

  “I honestly don’t think about such things,” Michael said.

  “You take destiny out of the picture and things start running late. People start missing their appointments. One affects the other. The next thing you know, everyone is off their path.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Something occurred last night that may allow us to set things straight. I’m inviting you along for a chance to reset your destiny.”

  Michael laughed as the cab pulled to the curb. He glanced at the meter, paid the driver, then turned back to Stanley Post.

  “Not your stop, Mr. Post?” he asked as he pushed the door open.

  “No.”

  “Wouldn’t want your tab,” he said. “And I don’t think I want what you’re selling either.” He gathered his briefcase and umbrella, slammed the door behind him, and hurried up the stone steps. Debora pushed away from her desk as he entered and followed him back to his office.

  She was overly thin with long, dull hair of indeterminable color. Her straight, sober demeanor made Michael think more of a librarian than an assistant. But just like a librarian, she was amazingly brilliant and capable, always thorough and helpful.

  “You didn’t miss anything,” she assured before he could ask. “You should have taken your time. The early report is finished, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said with full faith. He shook off his wet jacket and hung it on a rack, then stood in the center of the room, looking as lost as he was wet. He looked at his watch, then dropped his arm in frustration, remembering it wasn't there.

  “Nine twenty-three,” Debora said.

  “When did we need to have the stock ready?”

  “Not until a quarter to eleven, sir. See, shouldn’t have rushed.” She walked back to her desk, the sound of her low heals clicking on the hard floor. “Why don’t you just sit down and relax,” she called back.

  “I’m soaked.”

  “Then stand if you wish. I have something to show you.” Michael heard her seat gently creak as she sat down. A drawer opened and closed, the chair creaked again. She was back with a newspaper in hand. She tossed it on Michael’s desk. He walked around to see it.

  The Wind Quarry. The newspaper shared its name with the city: a historical name, even though the quarry wasn’t anywhere near the city limits, nor had it been quarried in ages.

  “What am I looking at?” Michael asked.

  “Page two, left column.” She waited while he unfolded the paper and scanned. The headline on the column read Mayor Out of Time. He quickly read the narrow block of text.

  “Yeah?” Michael asked. “He lost his watch. Why is this something important? I lost my watch too,” he said showing his bare wrist.

  “Did you read all of it?” Debora asked.

  “I skimmed it.” He pushed the paper across the desk toward Debora. “I already know all about the mayoral watch; it is a historical timepiece passed from mayor to mayor. It’s horrible that it's lost, but I’m sure it will turn up.” Michael sat down and frowned at the feeling of his wet clothes against him.

  “None of that i
s what I thought you would find interesting,” Debora said. “Look.” She put a finger on a section of the text and slid the paper back to Michael without losing her place. “Did you know that the band is made of an old stock of Bandolier leather?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Michael said as he slid to the edge of his seat.

  Two