Gold Watch (short story)

Story by Nathan Truzzolino

The old Doctor had ingested a mixture of high-grade Russian vodka with low-grade local heavy microbrew beer. Since he had been speaking more than eating this evening, there wasn't the soft landing pad of carbohydrates to soften the blow his belly is used to.

The festivities were finally winding down, the ballroom getting quieter and emptier as the hours ticked away. The Doctor is a pop bellied and hobbled man who has a low center of gravity like an overexploited pit bull. After tonight's activities, his freshly dry cleaned and pressed suit is wrinkly, sweaty and sauce stained.

His upset stomach is now starting to become a real problem. The kind of problem that lands you in the gossip pages. He finds his wife, begs his pardon for the interruption, and tells his missis that he will take a walk around the hotel to get some air. He air kisses her on both cheeks the way two Hollywood actresses would and makes his labored escape. The odd embrace between the Doctor and his wife is not lost on the remaining guests.

Wobbling worse than usual, the Doctor spots a nice wooden bench with cast-iron rails and four griffin claws clutching brass balls. The bench is placed near a set of bathrooms. He flops his large posterior down without much resistance on the descending approach. The noise is louder than he would have liked.

Sitting feels good on his surgically repaired knee, but unfortunately, the violent alcohol-induced spins have become the chief worry for the ex-surgeon. Not wanting to vomit in public, he stands up as quickly as his robot knee will allow. The quick accent throws his balance too far forward, and with the 30 lbs hanging over his belt, Newton's curse takes over, and the Doctor goes ass over tea kettle.

Luckily for the Doctor, no one sees this transpire, but he needs to try and pick himself up. He does the roll to one hip and pushes up with the arms trick that he used so many times on the ski hill, and to his surprise, it works with relative ease. Once upright, he felt rather accomplished and was again struck by the uneasiness of his body. His world is swaying and spinning all at the same time.

Instead of wisely going for the bathroom door that sits slightly ajar behind him, the Doctor instead shuffles for a double door down the hall. By God's grace, the doors swing outward and not inward because if they had, he would have busted through the doors like an old-timey cowboy being thrown out of a saloon. To make things worse, there was a drop floor on the other side of the doors, so he would have had two steps and about three more feet of drop to call his punishers.

He wonders what the hell is wrong with him? He only had 3 drinks, he thinks.

He uses the doors as leverage to get himself on an even keel for a few moments of rest and eventually shifts to the left enough to swing open the right double door. Amazingly he tackles the two steps with ease and notices that he is in the hotel bar and lounge. This is where the party had started earlier tonight. Cocktail hour was at 5, and dinner proceeded at 7. It must be close to 1:00am now, he thinks. Maybe the 3 drinks he remembers were in the ballroom only; he had forgotten the 3 he had in here during cocktail hour.

The limping Doctor shuffles to the long stick where the bright LED lights lure him like a moth to the flame. He jumps and sits on the high bar stool, causing much pain in the bad knee and his deteriorating ankles. Once safely seated, he puts his hands into the shape of prayer.

He had made it without losing his dinner. Prayer answered.

"Which god you praying ta?"

The Doctor looks up from his wrinkled million-dollar hands to see the looming Bartender. He has a friendly smile and has one hand on the bar and the other on his hip.

"All of them," the Doctor exclaims with a laugh.

Having seen this prayer before, the Bartender volleys a chuckle and fills a pint glass with ice and water. He slides the sweating glass over to the disheveled Doctor, just in front of those clasped hands.

"Maybe if you pray hard enough, Jesus will return to turn this into wine?" The Bartender says.

"Let him sleep; the water is fine." The Doctor says and lifts the glass to his lips and inhales it. He gives a wince like it was full of cheap liquor.

"Brain freeze?" Bartender asks.

"My wife declares I don't have the required equipment for that ailment," the Doctor says through squinting eyes.

The pain passes, and the world comes back into view for the old surgeon.

He stares the Bartender down and sees that he is a rather handsome man. The shock of red hair styled high and tight. He has on modern dark-framed glasses and wears a button-up Patagonia top engineered to fight UV rays when fishing for trout. He wears his apron loose and low like a gunfighter. His face is a collage of freckles.

"Were you in here earlier tonight?" The Doctor asks.

"Been here since 5."

"What time is it now?"

"Near close. Which is 2."

"I was in here for the cocktail hour. I didn't see you."

"There were two of us then, plus a waitress. If you saw her in here, you would remember."

"Oh, I remember."

In fact, the Doctor had been served exclusively by the waitress with the short-cropped blonde hair and even shorter clipped black skirt. The Doctor remembers feeling very old around her, and then after his second happy-hour beer, he remembers feeling suddenly just old enough for her.

The Bartender smiles as if he can see the old man's memory of the pretty waitress playing out in front of him at the bar.

"So you were here for the retirement party then?" Barkeep asks.

"Indeed I was, and somehow I am back in here, praying not to fall over and make a fool of myself again." The Doctor says with a sad smile.

"I can understand that. Sometimes we need a place to hideout. People do that in here all the time."

A silent acknowledgment is brokered between patron and mixologist.

"Can I get ya something other than water?"

"Maybe something light."

"Coffee? Beer? Booze?"

"Beer. Stella, maybe?"

"Stella, it is."

The Doctor sips the cold beer for a while, focusing his eyes on the TV behind the bar. Some kind of sports recap program is on, and the fury of images is overloading the synapses of his brain faster than they can process the information. He has to look away in fear that his digesting roasted duck with string beans, mashed potatoes, and steak tar-tar will come upon this lovely gentleman's bar. The fast-moving images weren't the only problem with the sports channel. The state of the game of baseball, basketball, and most especially football made him sick beyond reproach. He thinks the world is going to hell in a hand-crafted farmers' market wicker basket.


Best to focus on the beer, he thinks.

"Excuse me, sir, I'm getting ready to close. Are you staying at the hotel tonight?"

"Matter of fact, I am."

"Well, you can stay here while I muck up the joint if you want."

"Fine by me," the Doctor says, patting himself down for his wallet to pay the lad. He finds it in his blazer, right pocket, and an old leather band timepiece that he wore almost every day to work as a practicing pediatric surgeon for the past twenty years. He sets them both on the bar.

The ice water helped. When the barkeep locks up, he slightly lowers the lights and completely exterminates the music, creating a serene and calm atmosphere. The Doctor notices his old watch on the bar and examines it. The back of the watch is worn down smooth, the silver-colored watch backing having rubbed against the Doctor's old wrist through the good and the bad, leaving no markings whatsoever. The leather band is as worn as an old softball mitt, ready to crack at the heaviest of pressure points.

The Bartender disposes of the trash and locks the back door behind him. He sees the old man examining the watch.

"Looks like an antique."

"Certainly feels like one." The Doctor replies.

He examines it for a while and notices the Bartender doesn't have a watch. Impulsively he asked, "Would you like to have it?"

"No, I couldn't accept that. Seems personal to you. Sentimental like."

The drunk Doctor reluctantly agrees.

The Bartender retrieves two pint glasses and fills them with a light beer with a German name.

He slides one over to the Doctor and lifts his up.

"It's your toast," the Bartender says.

The Doctor looks up from his watch and sees the beer. Grabs it and, without thinking too hard says,

"To my retirement. May it last just as long as it needs."

They clink the glasses.

Extensive drinks from both of them.

"So it was your retirement party? Congratulations and salute."

He lifts the glass again, and they drink in unison.

Yes, it was his retirement, and he was 'god damn ready for it.' The world, the culture, the hospital, everything has changed, and with those changes, he was now a lost puzzle piece, no longer fitting into anyone's game.

"It was time." The Doctor says, looking at the watch again.

They sit in silence for a minute, entranced by the decaying timepiece.

"Hey, I have a tiny fryer in the back that I haven't shut down yet. You want to throw in a few chicken wings and jalapeño poppers?"

"No. I have troubled you enough tonight." The Doctor says with a wave of his trembling hand.

"No trouble at all. In fact, I insist. You brought in about $250 in tips tonight, so it's the least I can do."

So the redheaded barkeep fries up some bar food and brings out a bowl of tortilla chips with a not-so-mild salsa. They both eat and drink in silence as they watch the muted television and do that open-mouth eating thing you do when the food is attempting to scold the inside of your mouth.

"That might have been the best meal I had tonight," the ex-doctor grunts.

"All meals after a few drinks are the best meals. That's why chefs invented booze. Bourdain once wrote, 'an ounce of sauce can cover a multitude of sins.' That also applies to 24 ounces of beer."

"Who am I to argue with two professionals?" The Doctor says with a smile.

He fingers his old watch again, staring at it with a melancholy feeling. The Bartender can see it in the Doctor's face. He doesn't have much elasticity left in his face, and what does remain is visibly enhanced with artificial chemicals and toxins.

"Do you have a son you can give it to? Nephew?"

"No one should be wearing this watch except for me." He groans.

And as if he had just magically remembered a fun thing he saw today, he slides up his blazer sleeve where a brand new gold Rolex watch is hugging his liver-spotted wrist.

"Ohhh," the Bartender says in a loud and amusing tone. The barkeep is impressed, big-eyed, and speechless. He had never seen a genuine Rolex before.

The Doctor removes the Rolex in a flash and tosses it hard onto the bar.

Both are sitting in the pocket of uncomfortable silence. The Bartender felt he had offended the old man, while the Doctor was embarrassed by his wild outburst.

"I apologize." The Doctor says. The Bartender just raises his hand in the stop position, signaling no harm, no foul.

They snack on some chips and salsa.

"So they really give you a gold watch when you retire, huh?"

"If you're a snobby, successful, and pompous asshole like me, they do. Here is your prize. Thanks for the memories. Now get the fuck out of here." the Doctor says with malice.

The Bartender grabs a fresh bar towel, gently wraps the Rolex and slides it over to the drunk patron.

The Doctor raises up the old Timex with the leather band to examine the backside.

"There used to be an engraving on here. It's worn away now along with my willpower and reputation."

"What did it say?"

"I think it was a quote or poem or something stupid. It was from my long-time sponsor, celebrating 5 years of sobriety." He says. The Doctor does his best to make out any kind of etching remaining. He squints his eyes, and a tear well up. Rapid blinks shoo it away.

The bartender nods, acknowledging the elephant who just entered the room. Sober no longer.

The Doctor notices the look on the redhead's face and sees the confusion.

"I uh, was sober for almost twenty years. All because of a horrible accident. I decided enough was enough; thus, I started attending AA meetings, following the goddamn 12 steps, found an amazing sponsor, and that was that. My new life had begun."

He stops the story to remember that time, all flashing through his head like slats of light on a subway car, one flashing slide at a time.

"Then, well as all good things, it came to an end. Tragedy struck. My best friend, sponsor, and mentor was killed in an automobile accident. I identified his body at the morgue in the morning. After signing his paperwork, I immediately went to the pub across the street and drank until I fell over."

The Bartender feels a pang of sympathy. He had heard a version of this story a thousand times before.

"That was three years ago. Shit. I've been on the gold watch path ever since."

The bartend shifts from a two-foot straight-on stance to leaning one heel against the bar.

"I'm sorry about your friend. Some people have all the luck, and it's naturally the people who don't really need it."

"Therefore by the grace of God go I." The Doctor says.

More silence painfully withstood. The flashing television is now schlepping a buy-one get-two magic pillow. The Bartender didn't know what to do, so he raised his half-empty beer. The Doctor did not. The Doctor had the saddest sour puss face you had ever seen. Real drooping dog shit.

"Listen, there is something I've always wanted to ask people like you. You know, those that quit drinking as long as you had. Can I ask what got you sober in the first place? If you don't mind me asking? You said it was an accident. I am not trying to pry. I'm just curious because I have always tried to stop or at least take a few months off from drinking, and honestly, I just can't seem to shake it. I blame this job, but I know that's not the root of the issue inside my heart."

The Doctor, lost in thought, has to think about it for a while.

"It was a triggering event." The Doctor said. He feels the tenseness at the back of your throat when a cry is about to come on.

"I had uh, I had screwed up bad one night at work. I, um. I botched a surgery. Almost took two lives, the son and the mother. I had a few glasses of wine with dinner and was called out to do this emergency cesarean. I knew I was on call that evening, but I thought I was hot shit, so I drank anyway."

The Doctor takes a big swig of beer.

"They didn't die, though?"

"No. Thank God. But ah. They were, uh. They were altered forever, let's say. Cosmetically."

He clears his throat, and for the first time since that last AA meeting three years ago, he tells a stranger his sins.

"I maimed the child with my scalpel while it was still in utero. I left a scar down his face and later found out he had lost vision in his right eye. I then botched the rest of the surgery, messing up the mother's stitching, leaving a nasty scar and a serious infection that nearly took her reproductive organs. I honestly don't think she had any kids after that. Even if she could, I am sure my memorable performance made the idea of another pregnancy too traumatizing."

The Bartender straightened up. He looked distraught by the story. Angry even. He could see the Doctor was on the verge of crying. He could tell the Doctor had said this story so often that it almost sounded recorded. It had no soul left. It was triggering no longer.

Then the Bartender reached out and placed his hand on the Doctor's. The Doctor finally began to cry. He sobbed for nearly five minutes before he took the bar towel the Rolex was wrapped in and blew his nose into it. The Rolex rolled carelessly onto the smooth bar.

The Bartender grabs the Rolex and places it on the Doctor's wrist with tenderness and care.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"Sure." The Doctor says. Through tear blurred vision, he notices the Bartender is wiping tears from his eyes as well.

"You think you could help me? You know? Be my sponsor?"

The Doctor straightens up and does a final wipe on his face with the towel.

"You mean to help you stop drinking?"

"Yeah, you know, like. Maybe this is my triggering event."

"Why would listening to a blathering idiot be your triggering event?" The Doctor asks almost condescendingly.

The Bartender brushes it off and just smiles.


"Come around here. I want to show you something." The Bartender says.

The Doctor is confused and hesitant.

"This is your chance to make a difference. One more time." The tall redhead says.

The Doctor brightens up, slips off the stool, and shimmies his way around the U snapped bar. The Bartender leads him to the back storage area.

He flips on the fluorescent lights and walks over to the tiny desk in the corner. On it sits an open laptop computer attached to a large monitor. A matrix of about nine smaller screens lights up the computer monitor. The Bartender turns off the monitor and closes the laptop.

"You know, I had a feeling this would be an interesting night. The air just had a spark about it. A buzz! It's like when you go to a baseball game, and it turns out to be a home run derby or the pitcher tosses a perfect game. Electric!" The Bartender says with a smile.

The Doctor stands awkwardly, his shirt collar wet from snot and tears, and his blazer jacket is now wholly disheveled. The rollercoaster of emotions has him on his heels.

"I asked you if you could help me. To help me stop drinking and use this triggering event as the reason to stop forever, and I need you to agree to that because you are going to be a big part of it." The Bartender pleads.

The Doctor felt good now, helpful again. Like he had when he delivered babies and performed miracle surgeries on mothers and their offspring.

"I am ready. I am ready to help you get sober. Heck, this might even be a new triggering event for me! A new leaf, a new life, retirement can and should be a good thing."

"I hope so."

They look at each other with newfound hope and vigor.

"Ok. Here is my plan. I will write a short letter to my boss saying I am quitting this job. Tonight. Then I am going to have you sign it with me. Is that ok? Like in solidarity with each other's sobriety kind of thing? Is that corny?" asks the Bartender. He is as giddy as a schoolboy.

"I would be honored to do that for you." The Doctor says with a proud smile. Tonight was a great night as he knew it would be. All of his friends and family showed up. They all brought him gag gifts, and the hospital even did a short montage video where all of his former colleagues and employees said a friendly word or two. It was exceptional. He had changed a lot of lives for the better. He had made a real difference.

The Bartender brings out a pen from his apron pocket and jots down a small note on his drink order notepad he had in his back pocket. He signs a small wispy signature at the bottom.

"Can you sign it at the bottom?" He asks the Doctor.

He hands it over to him.

"Shit, I don't have my readers. I can't really see what it says. You wrote it very small; it looks like scribbles mostly." The Doctor says with an annoyed snort.

"I thought doctors could read that stuff, like the old prescription gag." The Bartender laughs.

The Doctor's laughs are fake like he hasn't heard that joke a thousand fucking times before. He thought bartenders were supposed to be funny.

Blindly the Doctor jots his John Hancock on the bottom of the pad and shows it to the Bartender.

Smiling, the Bartender bends down to read it. He whispers to himself, ' perfect' as he reads it without taking it out of the Doctor's hands.

Like lightning, the triggering event is sprung into motion. This was it. This was going to be the night both of their lives changed forever. It woduld be a great story to tell to their friends and lovers.

With great strength and swiftness, the Bartender grabs the gold watch-wrapped wrist of the Doctor and yanks it towards him violently, throwing the balance of the stocky Doctor off-kilter. The notepad drops from the Doctor's hand and falls to the floor. The drunk Doctor knows what this cruel Bartender is trying to do. The fucking lush wants his gold watch!

The Bartender reaches with his other hand and wraps it around the back of the Doctor's neck, swinging him towards the far corner of the room. The Doctor slips to one knee and receives a stroke to the temple for his doing so. The Bartender lifts the pudgy man back to a standing position.

The hand the Bartender has a hold of is then jerked towards the counter where the deep fryer is stationed.

A rush of pain the Doctor has never experienced before in his life runs like escaping lightning through his entire body. His hand feels as if it is on fire. The smell of burning pork fills the room. The Doctor pulls his arm away from the Bartender with all of his weight and collapses to the ground.

Fryer grease splatters on his neck and face as he brings his hand up to his eyes to access the damage.

The gold watch is now embedded into his melted skin. The shine of the watch, now more pristine and noticeable, glistens with hot fryer grease. The skin of the Doctor's hand looks like fried chicken that has been left in the fryer a tad too long. The sound of the still crackling hand fills the room.

He screams in pain and withers on the ground like a worm plucked from the soil by a hungry sparrow.

The Bartender slowly walks over to the Doctor and squats next to him. He touches the Doctor's graying hair in a lovingly manner.

"Hey man, you alright?" The Bartender asks.

"You fucking punk! The fuck!" He yells at him.

"Hey, relax, calm down." The Bartender says in a friendly tone. He grabs the Doctor by the face and violently twists it towards his own.

Eye to eye. Nose to nose.

The Bartender reaches up to his own face now and removes his thick black frames from his face.

Eye to eye. Nose to nose.

The Doctor doesn't need his readers to notice it now. The clouded, white dead eye and the scar that runs like the Nile from the top of the eyebrow to the center of his cheek. It was hard to see before with the thick glasses, and his freckled face. The freckles primarily cover the scar very well, but it's now clear as rain being this close to his face. The physical manifestation of his vanity, addiction, and bad luck is now inches from his face. Staring a hole into his soul.

"Thank you." The Bartender says with a smile. "I really mean it."

The Bartender reaches into the Doctor's blazer jacket and retrieves the old leather band watch. He admires it for a few seconds, then slowly fastens it onto his boney wrist.

"I think I will give this to my mother." He says

He admires it on his wrist and looks back down at the Doctor and, for one last time before he leaves the room, tells the Doctor,

"Thank you."