Stopped Clock: Feels Like the First Time

I was walking down by the ship canal last weekend. It was late and I was trying to find an oyster bar I had heard of, but I must have gotten the directions wrong and my phone was out of charge. I spent a good few muggy, depressing hours wandering mazes of galvanized metal-fronted buildings with flickering signboards hanging from rusting tube-steel posts. Rats scurried across overhead phone lines. Bad smells sprang out of storm inlets at surprising moments. It wasn't a great neighborhood and I was frankly feeling a little ill-at-ease.

There was a slam of a door just behind me, and a wall of crowd noise washed over me -- the murmur of several dozen voices pitched at the level of comfortable conversation; the somewhat louder murmur of an additional dozen voices pitched at the level of comfortable conversation for the somewhat inebriated; glassware sliding on counters and clanking in sinks; bottles and cans rattling around in the garbage; darts hammering into boards and cues striking balls; miscellaneous hums and electric rattles; scrapes of chairs and the tinking of ice cubes.

I became aware that the noise of the bar (for the noises of a bar this could only be) overlay the subtle, shuffling sounds of somebody standing in the doorway. I turned my body to put my back against the structure, certain that I was about to be either mugged or puked on. It turned out I was being paranoid. The outline in the doorway smiled at me in an unnervingly familiar way.

"Andy!" said a voice I only partway recognized. "Dude! It's great to see you again!"

The gears in my head turned with glacial slowness as I puzzled over the face of this newcomer. The grey hair I didn't recognize; the scar across the bridge of the nose was unfamiliar -- but the broad grin? That could only be...

"Dan?" I stepped forward to shake his hand. I hadn't seen Dan for, jeez, over a decade. Ten years is a long time, but he was younger than me, and he looked like he had aged thirty years during that interval. I felt it was rude to say anything of the sort, however.

"You have to come in and have a drink," Dan said. It wasn't a suggestion, nor was it really an order. It was really just a statement of fact.

"What is this place?"

"It's The Stopped Clock, man," he said. "You're going to like it here."

We crossed the threshold. The bar was smoky in the way that only bars can be where at least half a dozen different things are being smoked. There was a long counter with a poorly cared for mirror running the entire wall, and whole thing illuminated by a variety of neon beer signs, many of which I didn't recognize. The place was almost full, and the clientele was - a little strange. There were cowboys, men in bowlers, women in togas, a trio of serious people in white coats, and a sallow grinning bartender with one gold tooth.

We pulled up two stools. "This is Edgar," Dan told me, indicating the bartender. "You don't know him, but he knows you, and he knows what you drink." As if to prove it, Edgar made me a gin and tonic with a full lime in it, and winked after handing it over. I was surprised but said nothing. I usually prefer to get my bearings before asking stupid questions.

The door to the bar opened again, and in strode a hulking man with a great, bushy beard dressed in the loose cassock of a Russian mystic. A cheery greeting rose from the other patrons as he walked in, and Rasputin waved vaguely to everybody as he hung up his robe and removed his fake facial hair. I realized that under all that was the garb and face of Josef Stalin, who wearily took his place at the counter and ordered a Cosmo.

I elbowed Dan. "What the hell is that all about?" I hissed. It took Dan a second to see what I was looking at.

"Oh, him," he replied breezily. "Yeah, he commutes."

I drank half my drink to steel myself. The gin was unfamiliar. "Dan," I asked patiently, "what kind of place is this?"

Dan and Edgar shared a smirk. "I told you, it's the Stopped Clock," he said. "It's a bar. For people who travel. Time-travellers, basically. You can't find it unless you've stepped off the path."

"Man, I don't know what you're talking about," I said, gulping the rest of my drink. "I've done some crazy shit but I'm no time traveller."

"Aren't you?" Dan caught Edgar's eye and whirled his finger around once. Edgar dutifully produced new drinks for us.

"What's that mean? I think I oughta know if I've travelled through time before," I replied grumpily. Dan didn't let this dent his good mood.

"Boy, that brings back memories," he said. "I remember when I said something similar to you, back when it was my turn to..."

"Ah ah ah!" scolded Edgar. There were a few snickers along the length of the bar, and I realized that an awful lot of the clientele was listening in.

I figured it out. "What, so you mean I'm going to time travel *eventually*? but I don't know it yet? That's some screwed up stuff right there."

"When he's right, he's right!" declared some faceless wag in the crowd.

"TWICE A DAY!" shouted the rest of the room, amid much merriment.

"What did all that mean?" I asked Dan.

"It means it's your turn to buy a round," Dan said. Again, not an order and not a suggestion; just a statement of fact.

I got Edgar working on that, then turned back to Dan. "Okay, this time travel I'm supposed to do. When does it happen?"

"Yes!" replied Dan brightly, as if this made perfect sense.

"No, I mean what day, what hour, what...."

"Don't do that," said Dan seriously. "We don't do specifics here. No watches, no calendars, no dates and times. No birthdays and no anniversaries. The Stopped Clock likes to keep things loose."

I thought about that. "Kind of, what, a superstition?"

Dan shrugged. "Call it professional courtesy," he replied. He stood up and pushed his stool back in.

I gaped. "You're leaving? I just got here."

"I got places to be, man."

"So, uh, stick around a few minutes and then go."

Dan shook his head. "Not how it works. You showing up -- that's the sign. It's the next step in the dance, buddy. I can't hold up the whole dance just for another drink!"

I took a surly swig of my gin and tonic. "Yeah, well, if that's the case, then time travel sucks." There was a generalized cry of outrage, and a crushed can bounced off the back of my coat.

"Nah, it's pretty good," said Dan. "And don't sweat it, this isn't my last visit."

"Ah." This was awkward. "Well, then I guess I'll see you around."

And Dan was gone. A faint flurry of snow came in the door when he walked out, even though snow is basically unheard of in Houston. A scruffy old man wearing the coat of a civil war general immediately took the seat Dan had abandoned and peered at me with crazy eyes.

"If I can guess the number you're thinking of," he suggested, "you could buy me a beer."

Everybody around us groaned. Edgar made a small "don't do it" hand signal. Over by the dartboards, somebody wrote "18" in large numerals on the scoreboard. Strangely, 18 was the first number that had popped into my head.

"I'll pass," I replied, "but I'll bet *you* five drinks that I'm sitting on a piece of paper that has the exact number you were going to guess."

The old man's eyes narrowed. "You can't possibly know that yet," he hissed. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" I shifted on my stool. The silence grew awkward.

"I gotta pee," the man finally announced. As he shuffled off, red in the face, whoops and shouts of congratulations arose from the crowd. I was buffeted on the back and pinched on the cheek, and amid ragged cries of "Twice a Day!" I bought the bar another round.

I guess I'll be back at that bar some more this year. It seems like a fun place, and you never know what's going to happen, or when, or how.

[just setting up for the upcoming year; thanks crisper]