His mother is the green city parks, and his father is the cold Aberdeen rains for he has been there for as long as anyone can remember. At times, it seems as if he not made of flesh and blood but is some living construct composed of old tin cans, cardboard boxes, and bits of cloth. He does not seem to be part of the human race, and therefore he is eternal. Maybe that’s why he can’t stop looking at his damned watch. He’s counting the seconds till it all goes kaboom and he can rest again. At least I’ve thought so for most of my life.
“He must have come from somewhere.” I insist at my grade school lunch table. It is a conversation I will have many times in my life. The Watchman, Aberdeen’s eternal shambling hobo, has more origin stories than some gods, most saints, and almost all superheroes. He may be a hobo but he has a certain kind of nobility about him, an aura that demands the telling of great tales. His past is a locked door that invites much wonder.
“I heard it was a diving accident.” In a group larger than four, I am always sure to hear this story. “He was out on a boat with his brother. The boat went down. He got off in time with some Scuba gear. His brother was trapped in the boat and got pinned below in an air pocket. There wasn’t time to go for help, so he went after his brother himself. He stayed down too long trying to get him free. Kept checking his watch to see how much air he had left. His brain got screwed up when the air started to run out, and ever since he can’t stop looking at his watch. Heard it from a guy who works at the police station and looked up his record.”
The answer doesn’t satisfy. There are too many variations. Sometimes he’s trying to save his wife. Sometimes he’s trying to save someone he took on a scuba tour. All any of us really know is that he walks around Aberdeen in old clothes and can’t go five seconds without checking his watch. To this day I still don’t know anyone who knows more about him than that.
The scuba story satisfies some people because it appeals to those who look at a man checking his watch, and see someone who’s connected to the world. They see a man who has plans, who has places to go and people to see. They see a guy who fits into a slot somewhere in the grand scheme of things. So they make up a story that satisfies a character type. Other people see something different in the Watchman. Some people see a man who’s waiting.
“If he’s waiting for something what is it?” I’m still asking people the same questions I asked in grade-school.
“His wife left him.” Someone will say in a matter of fact tone. “After his accident there was a big insurance settlement. Well, she looked at that money, looked at her husband and said, to hell with this. Took the money, drove him down to the Harbor and said, I’ll meet you back here in an hour. Fucking city scum think they can throw all their garbage down here. Well, she left, and never did come back. Then he got it in his head that maybe she was going to come on some other hour, and he keeps looking at that watch waiting for her. Damned sad when you think about it. Know a guy who works for the county, looked it up, every word true.”
The details of this change as well. Sometimes his children abandon him. Sometimes the brother he saved from that sunken boat. He has no kin anywhere now as far as I can tell. Save that every soul that lives in the Harbor knows him by sight, and by the name which he has been given from out of the cloudy sky. The Watchman.
My step-father tackled the Watchman once. Once, long before my step-father was my step-father, he was walking the town drunk. He heard the story about the settlement and he thought that there were millions of dollars in the suitcase the Watchman carries with him. My step-father stole the suitcase and busted it open. All he found was crumpled up newspaper. Serves him right for tackling a peaceful man if you ask me.
The Watchman’s suitcase changes as often as his watches. Somewhere in Aberdeen I like to think the Watchman has some kind of hobbit-hole filled with stacks of suitcases and time-pieces, and that if you put your ear to its door you can hear the sound of the ocean in the empty cases and the seconds ticking away like a heartbeat.
I could find out who he is, I suppose. My uncle is in law enforcement, and that’s something I don’t have to take on faith from any story. I have always been oh so good at solving puzzles. It wouldn’t take me long. All I’d have to do is find out where he lives. Feed the information into the system, and get a name. With a proper name I could lay my hands on all kinds of records. Birth certificates, social security numbers, all the stuff that would just rip the shit right out of a mystery. However, I find myself reluctant.
I have heard too many fables at too young an age. I have imagined too many heroic battles with seaweed and ship debris as the Watchman struggles to save his loved one. So what if I found out that he’d suffered from nervous ticks since birth? So what if every man has a past? I like the Watchman the way he is, wandering and waiting. He invites the bounty of the town’s imagination. He makes me stare at the river and wonder.
Yes, I like the Watchman just fine. I like to think about what goes on in his head when he looks at his wrist and clutches his briefcase. I like to wonder what he was doing that time he went into the grocery store, and put his bare foot on top of big can of peach preserves so he could shave it. Was he trying to groom himself for a pair of swimming fins? Did the hair just make his socks uncomfortable? Or is there another reason? I don’t know. Unlike with most things, I like not knowing. He has grand cheeks and deep mysterious eyes, and that is all I need to know.
I like thinking of the children sitting around the lunch tables at McDermoth Elementary, year after year, sitting and whispering. “Who is he? Where did he come from? Everybody comes from somewhere?” I like to think of the little boy who tells his friends that it was a scuba accident. I like to think of the arguments that follow. Most of all, I like to think about the stories they invent to fill the void.
