2003-05-28 12:16 pm
The Barrowman
An idea for a story:
I am a fellow who sits at his desk all day, every day. As I sit at my desk, I do a number of things. I write. I adjust my tie. I rearrange the curtains in front of me. And I stare out of the window, a little longingly, wondering why I am doomed to sit at my desk with nothing to do.
The only event of any importance in my life happens on Thursday mornings, when the old rag and bone man pushes his barrow down the street. Every Thursday he is there. Every Thursday I look out for him.
He arrives at the mouth of the street and walks down the exact center of the road, pushing his empty barrow. He clangs his bell three times, and after each clang he shouts in a deep voice:
"Ay. OH!"
In all the time that I have watched him, he has never bought or sold any iron. The windows in the street remain closed. As do the doors. He passes on, and disappears round the corner.
One Thursday I happen to glance at the clock on the desk when he clangs his bell.
It is 9.38am. I remember the time because this happens to be the very minute that I was born.
But this does not seem out of the ordinary until two weeks later when I catch sight of the clock again. Again, it is 9.38am.
I am amused by this coincidence. The next week I wait to see if he is so very regular in his rounds that it happens every Thursday.
To my slight amazement I find that it does.
I also notice that the second and third clangs of his bell happen at 9.40am and 9.42am respectively. These too happen every week, at the same time.
It does not take me long to notice that not only do the bell clangs come at the same minute of each day: they also happen to come at the very same second.
But surely this is not possible? I say to myself. I take out a jotter and begin to make a note of the exact time at which the old rag and bone man peforms his every action. Every Thursday I set my clock by an atomic clock I find on the internet to attain the most exact time possible.
Before long I have a catalogue of the man's monstrous precision.
Everything he does he does at the same time, every week. He takes the same number of steps to walk along the street, he takes each step at precisely the same time. He moves at exactly the same speed. Outside number 20 he stretches his right arm wearily. Just before the end of the street he fishes into his pockets for a handkerchief and dabs at his forehead.
Everything the same, every week.
What does this mean? I ask myself. How is it possible?
I decide to follow him, and I make more notes. I follow him all the way to his home. I become familiar with his evening routine. I watch through the window as he makes a bowl of porridge and sits in his armchair to eat it. I watch him fall asleep. Then I go home. On the other days of the week I follow him around the other streets, and I begin to notice something that seems even more extraordinary than his impossible precision.
Not once does anyone answer the clanging of his bell.
Not once does anyone open a window or a door and stop him on his journey.
I begin to have nightmares about what might happen if I interrupted the old man. I begin to think that all time is centred on him, that he is the place from which time flows.
But that does not stop me. One day when he passes I suddenly throw open the window and lean out and call his name.
And. The. Old. Man. Stops. And. I. Get. Up. And. He. Clicks. His. Heels. And. Runs. Off. Up. The. Road. Shouting.
"I'm freeeeeee!!!!"
And. I. Take. The. Handles. Of. The. Barrow. And. Begin. To. Push.
"Ay. OH!"
"Ay. OH!"
"Ay. OH!"
[previous]