Swiss Clock

He had lived the most ordinary life possible. Waking up in the morning, going to work with his brown leather briefcase, worn by all those years of labor. Leaving the office at one past five every evening, getting home at forty six past six every night. He would make dinner, or supper, it would take him fourteen minutes. He would watch television as he shovelled the fork into his face. Another thirty minutes. Seven thirty he would start the ritual for bed. By eight every night, he would be in bed. He would read, usually be asleep by eight thirty, be awake without an alarm between the hours of three and forty thirty in the morning. He would watch television and read some, slowly spoon some oatmeal in his mouth, and he would drag his bicycle out of his apartment, go riding. This was a recent edition, recent considering the timeline of all the rest. He had been working for thirty five years, he had had this schedule for thirty four and a half. He had been riding a bicycle every morning for four and a half years.

This morning was no different. He put on his bicycler’s skin tight outfit, he walked the bike out the door. The air smelled warm, but not humid, it felt cold, but not too rigid. It was still dark out, there would not be light today for another five minutes and seven seconds. He rolled the bicycle out, passed to check his watch, and start his timer. Just on time. He felt the pinprick of satisfaction that he felt every day, and the hum of worry starting in his head. What if something went wrong, what if something went off track. He could not afford to not be on time. His schedule was like a beautifully crafted swiss watch, precise and complex. If something went wrong, it would tumble over to everything in his day. The last time the time was off, well, he shuddered. He did not want to think about it.

He pressed the button, the watch sounded a small buzz, and he pushed off from the pavement and was off. The traffic lights he could not control, but he had figured out mostly how they worked. And it was morning, so if he was late, he could run the light on his bike, mostly because there were no cars at this time of day.

He reached the river as the sun was waking up, resplendent, magnificent. Beautiful, colored, in all its glory. It was a beautiful day, he was right next to the highway, and though it was loud, with the rush of the early birds, it was not as loud yet. It was relatively calm and peaceful, and he was at joy, biking faster than his problems could catch him, leaving them behind at the curb.

They were waiting for him when he returned, and the first thing that happened was that his foot hit the steps outside, it was burning, and he shouted ‘fuck’ in the quiet dawn morning. His key got stuck, and he had to pull it out a few times. It scratched his hand, making him bleed as it finally came out. Another loud ‘fuck’. He spied a roach in his usually pristine apartment, ‘fuck’. He grabbed his shotgun which had until then been decorative and with a last ‘fuck’, pulled it on himself.