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Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Instant Karma the Down in the Dirt September-December 2023 issues collection book		get the 422 page September-December 2023 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Watch

John Farquhar Young

[This is an extended and much revised version of a story first published in Flash Fiction Magazine in 2020 under the title ‘Departure Procedure’]

    Gary, single, an accountant, now drifting towards retirement, stands in a Spanish airport departure hall at the end of another holiday - another holiday by himself and ... he is glad to be going home. Good enough holiday, he thinks, but, I might as well have stayed at home, doing what I always do, eating out in cafes and restaurants and walking about.
    Perhaps life is getting boring, he thinks. Perhaps I am getting old, or depressed or both. Perhaps...
    Snap out of it! he reprimands himself.
    To pass the time he switches his attention to his immediate surroundings. Waves and packets of?home-goers pass, children are shepherded along by patient parents, elderly folk in wheelchairs are steered to departure gates. He decides to count the number of people in wheelchairs that pass his spot. “Fifteen, in ten minutes,” he murmurs. Young guys, well lubricated with alcohol, briefly exercise their vocal cords and attract the frown of a nearby police officer. Young couples are entwined in each other’s company.
    And then there are a few loners like me!
    He wanders towards a line of shops. Two Spanish police officers chat in a taped off area. A body, covered by a blue sheet, lies on the cream-coloured, tiled floor but the sheet is not big enough to cover the body. A yellowish-white arm is sticking out at one side. Just like a good-sized fish on a fishmonger’s slab, he finds himself thinking. A gold watch encircles the narrow end next to a hand where the tail would have been had it been a fish. From a distance the watch looks expensive.
    Nearby, he sees a bundle, a shirt, he thinks, and some hand luggage, then off to the left a long black bag with several handles, two at the sides and one at either end. He pictures the body being enveloped by the bag, the zipper zipped up, and people grasping the handles. “Ready, lift,” someone might grunt in Spanish, then onto a trolley; then away the package would go, first to the airport place reserved for corpses and onwards to an autopsy table.
    Procedures. Always procedures, checklists. Life is full of procedures, he thinks. There will be a procedure for dead bodies in airports - forms to be filled in, duplicated then filed in different folders. His mind drifts on. After a while the body would recommence its journey, navigated to its special place in the cold hold of a plane, perhaps near the luggage of passengers mourning the end of their holidays. On arrival the undertakers would be waiting, paperwork would be signed, the coffin lodged in the back of the hearse, then forward to final goodbyes - crematorium or graveyard,?a funeral oration about Harry or Hans, a collage of cobbled together flattering fragments about his sense of humour, how much he was valued as father, friend or business colleague. Whatever!
    His thoughts drift on. What might they say about me? Ok, there have been ups and downs. Well some small ups and a few bad downs. But overall, as lives go, perhaps I have earned a marginal pass.
    A short, rotund, middle-aged woman marches into view. Her grey hair is fiercely pulled back and secured into a stubble of a ponytail. She converses for a moment with the police officers, glances at the corpse, looks around, points at the body bag, frowns, barks into a walkie-talkie and strides off.
    Procedures? There would also be a procedure for the man’s watch. Soon it would start its own journey - removed?from the wrist, perhaps scrutinised for a moment, listed on a form, then dropped into a clear plastic bag then into another bag labelled ‘possessions’ in Spanish.
    What would be its destiny? Unlike the heart of the man with the fish arm the watch might tick on for many years, on a nephew’s wrist perhaps, or in a tin box in the back of a seldom opened drawer. Or perhaps, it would find its way into a glass case in a pawn shop.
    He looks at his own watch. How long have I had it for? Since my early twenties - a birthday present from my aunt. The strap needs to be replaced and it has to be wound up more often. If he died, the watch would stop within a couple of days at most. It would probably be binned, he believes.
    A sudden thought - more than a thought, an impulse. He looks at the departure display and sees that his gate will not be advised for at least another half hour. Get yourself a new watch. Why not? But, at the same time the idea of replacing the watch almost feels like an act of betrayal. Kind of part of me, he thinks. But for a reason that he does not dwell on, the idea of getting a new watch energises him. He heads for a jewellery and watch shop at the far end of the concourse.
    The range of models is extensive and choosing the most suitable watch quickly leaves him indifferent to the proffered technical details. He allows himself to be swept along by a charming sales assistant whose English is excellent. He quickly follows her recommendation and emerges from the shop with an expensive electronic device. In addition to time keeping, it can measure his heartbeat and has other intriguing functions which he will need to explore when he returns home.
    New things! Newness! That’s what is missing from my life! New horizons! New beginnings? His thoughts acquire momentum.
    How about a new home? A place with a bigger garden would be nice. He could have a greenhouse and grow vegetables and flowers. He has from time to time thought about making this move but has always found a reason not to bother - over the years his small flat has served him well enough.
    Like my old watch!
    A new door opens in his mind. Am I wedded to my past, bound to my past, unduly attached to familiar objects, places, habits?
    On the departure display his flight gate flicks into view. As he ambles towards the seating area next to the gate he passes the place where the body with the fish arm lay. He thinks about the expensive watch being detached from the arm and starting its separate journey. His hand strays to his jacket pocket which now holds his old watch. A lingering bit of the familiar. Get rid of it - move on? He eyes a nearby bin.
    The gate opens, the queue shuffles forward. Gary finds himself glancing at the bin. Why did I bin my watch? I could have kept it in a drawer. A memento? He struggles with the impulse to retrieve the watch. The queue inches along. A moment’s indecision then a sense of resolve carries him through the check point into the tunnel and then onwards into the plane. He finds his seat, settles himself and glances at his watch. The bright display demands holds his attention as the seconds march along.

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