Chronograph Digital Black
Chronograph Digital Black
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Digital Angst In A Technological World (Part 2)
Copyright (c) 2010 Suzanne Wells
A NEW BEGINNING...
I settle into the driver's seat and pull the car door so we will have privacy. I draw in a breath and resign myself to figuring out how this guy ticks. I retrieve the hard piece of paper that's been folded so many times it reminds me of one of those paper football triangles we used to play with in high school. You know, the ones where your hands acted as goal posts and you flicked the triangle across the desk with the long "tall man" finger.
The firm paper form feels solid and familiar in my hand. I proceed to the unfolding process. I am soon sitting behind what looks like a massive New York Times made from rice paper with tiny little instructions printed in 10 different languages! I draw in a deeper breath.
Truly, I just wanted a simple watch, one that could give me the time and offer a familiar tic, tic, tic...father and son circling in their old familiar pattern. I glance down at the electronic numbers on my wrist as they wink their beady little eyes at me, jeering a bit. I feel like I am about to be had.
I flip on the interior of the car and stretch my arms out to expand the accordion- rice-paper-Jumbo-New-York-Times-10 -language instruction sheet. "I just wanted an old fashioned watch" I mumble to my wrist. He's grinning up at me with his glowing digits. I think I see him smirk. I feel a ping of remorse at my negative thought for a moment and think I should be nicer to my new adoptee. I peer into the instruction sheet for help and try to find the English version. I do find the English words and it seems simple enough: the usual "Getting Started With Your New Timex- Indigo-Laser-Fast Paced-Accurate to the 1/100th of a Second, Watch" section is prominently displayed at the top of the giant rice paper. I peer closer, adjusting my glasses to make out the tiny print and proceed to step one: "Setting the Time".
AS TIME GOES ON...
We start to get to know each other, me and my adoptee watch, there in the car in the Superstore parking lot under the weird pinkish glow of the street lamps. I move through the instructions, looking for hidden side buttons and alternate between screens. Eventually, I am able to set the current time and even figure out the hidden stop watch feature that might come in handy at bedtime with the kids.
I begin to settle into my new, glowy friend and try to ignore his occasional snicker as I miss some instruction or fumble with some obscure side button. At one point, the chronograph feature gets the best of us and we get stuck in the dreaded advanced mode which is sadistically layered under the other screens.
The guy is now frantically accumulating seconds by the 1/100th of a second! He's moving at breakneck speed as the scenery in his little watch world whizzes past him, number after endless number. I can hear him panting; beads of sweat dripping off his little digital face, running the race of his life! I try to save him, fingers fumbling with all the side buttons, grabbing the instruction sheet to scan for clues that might set him free.
I try to help him, I really do! I try to spring him from his underground chronograph torture. I try to bring him back up to a better reality, where he can breathe. I look helplessly down at my wrist. I gaze into his wide, blinking number-eyes and take in his exhausted little form. He's compelled now to frantically add his 1/100ths's of a second at blinding speed from here to infinity! He looks at me pleadingly, searching my eyes for relief. I understand he wants help of some kind, any kind. He seems to be screaming in his little digital voice: "HELP! For GOD'S SAKE, HELP! Do something! You have the instruction sheet right there in front of you -in 10 different languages!"
TIME TO GET BACK UP
I look back at him; try to get him to see the compassion in my eyes, not wanting to fail him. Finally, after our long gaze, we can't take it anymore, we both know it; we need reinforcements. I lift him up, grab for the rice paper, swing the driver's side door open and head for The Sport Authority's main entrance. I sprint through the parking lot, dodging cars, the accordion instruction sheet trailing me like a sail in the wind. I fly through the big glass doors at the front of the store.
Once in the store, I mentally congratulate myself again for befriending the technologically advanced check-out guy and hurry to the register. I hope he won't be too disappointed in me as I thrust my little guy's pulsating, heaving body onto the counter.
TIME FOR REINFORCEMENTS...
Once there, I carefully relay our woeful story of hope and eventual imprisonment. With my head hanging, I describe how hard I tried as a new parent, how much hope I had for us and how our story unfolded into our current predicament. I confess my shortcomings and ultimate failure as a new adoptee parent and wonder if he will ever trust me with such a purchase again. I wonder if I will be banned from future purchases - black-listed as irresponsible, technologically inept and unworthy of future adoptions.
We stand at our respective sides of the register, heads together, peering down at the clicking, blinking, exhausted watch-body. Digital eyes look pleadingly at us, searching for signs of hope in a "two - heads -are -better - than - one" sort of way. The check out guy is mellow and relaxed. He nods his head warmly as I relay my story. He soothingly offers "m-m-hm's" and "Uh-huh's" in hushed tones woven with compassion and grace. I am relieved; feel like maybe he's seen this before.
He carefully picks up my little guy and peers deeply into his face, studying it. I watch the way he holds my digital guy - his hands are graceful and careful, his breath even and relaxed, his eyes penetrating and knowing. I'm relieved again; I feel we will be OK. I am confident that this guy can help.
I can see my watch adoptee is relieved too as I observe his little watch 'band body relax in the checkout guys warm confident fingers. I watch the huddling pair closely and realize that these two are alien brothers. They seem to have some silent-secret -alien -extraterrestrial language that only the two of them understand.
The checkout guy calmly adjusts some buttons on the side and waits patiently for reactions from the square face. I hear a beep or two in response, but they're not random. They're more synchronized now, void of the desperation that filled his little voice earlier in the car. They continue like this for a while, the two of them navigating through the layers and menus that gently guide my guy up from his hellish, chronograph-race experience.
The checkout guy consults the rice paper from time to time, but seems to know right where to go to make his next move. He calmly zeros right in to the English language portion and lands the next step. Finally he lifts his head and carefully slides the watch to my side of the register counter.
"Here ya' go." He offers as he places the sleeping little guy in my palm.
About the Author
Suzanne Wells is an freelance writer, poet, author and mother of 3. She is a teacher of yoga, dance and Ayurveda and can usually be found at sunrise ushering the sun over the horizon with song. Her unfinished book lies floating in the Internet clouds at
http://www.roundearthsquarepeople.blogspot.com