The Counting-Downers

by A. J. Compton

  He won’t be at the dinner tomorrow as he has an exhibition of his work in downtown San Diego so he insisted we meet today so he can give me my birthday present from him.

  Right now, I’m driving over to the beach, enjoying California at its finest. The top of my sunshine yellow convertible is down, and in a rare moment, my long hair is free and blowing in the warm wind. The radio is on loud, blasting a song that just screams summer, and in between my laughter and cheers of delight, I’m singing along, loudly and badly.

  And it hits me.

  In this moment, I’m happy. Genuine, full force, rainbows and sprinkles, happy.

  Truly, deeply, freely.

  For all of the heartache, pain, and suffering. The grief and the torture. The hatred and the depravity. The abuse and the isolation. For all of the negativity and darkness this cruel world has to offer. Sometimes, just sometimes, the clouds part, the sun shines, and life reminds you why it’s good to be alive.

  This is one of those times.

  I’m grounded in the moment, vitality coursing through my veins and bringing an uncontrollable smile to my face. It stays in place all the way to what has now become ‘our spot.’ Tristan is already waiting for me on my dad’s bench when I arrive. He stands and smiles broadly when he sees me. Whatever I’m experiencing must be infectious; life lust permeates the air.

  “You’re in a good mood today.” He laughs as I skip into his embrace.

  “I am. I had the best drive, just one of those moments when an overwhelming energy takes hold and you feel lucky to be alive, you know?”

  “I do. I’ve had a few of those recently,” he says with a secret smile.

  “Are you excited about tomorrow?”

  “I should be asking you the same thing.”

  That makes me laugh. I’m so excited about his exhibition that I’ve forgotten all about my birthday. I’m one of those people who celebrate my friend’s triumphs as if they are my own, just like I feel their lows. “I guess, but I’ve had twenty-one birthdays before this one—this is your first solo exhibition!”

  He smiles at my enthusiasm. “It hasn’t sunken in yet. I’m currently more nervous than excited.”

  “That’s understandable, but be sure you make room for excitement too. At the very least, it should equal your nerves.”

  “This is where you’re supposed to tell me there’s no need to be nervous at all.”

  “It goes without saying that the exhibition will go well and people will love your work. It’s impossible not to. Your talent demands people’s attention and holds their emotions captive.

  “But I think a few nerves can be a good thing. It means this is important to you, and that you want this. So many people our age have no idea what they want. This is a sign that you do, which puts you ahead of the curve and one step closer to achieving your dreams.”

  “Always looking at things from a different angle, Tilda.”

  He’s given me a new nickname, which he interchanges with Baby Bear. No one else has ever called me Tilda before and I quite like it.

  “Well, it’s true.”

  “Thank you for your faith in me.”

  “Thanks for making it easy to believe in you.”

  “I wish you could be there tomorrow, or I could be with you. Time screwed us over with this one.”

  “It did. It’s good at doing that. I wish I could be there too.” He has no idea that the gang and I are planning to have an early dinner and drive downtown once we’re finished. “You’ll just have to take it all in and tell me about it afterwards.”

  “Likewise.”

  We fall into our usual routine of talking about everything and nothing for a while, interspersed with contented silences.

  “Your hair looks amazing down,” he says out of nowhere, after a long bout of silence.

  I glance down at my thick flaxen locks, which are poorly contained under a gold chain headband. They flow over the top of my denim shirt, almost spilling onto my tanned thighs below my white crochet shorts. Oscar isn’t the only one who needs a haircut.

  “Thanks, I rarely wear it loose.”

  “I’ve noticed. Why is that? Not that I don’t love the braid and flowers.”

  “I’ve never thought about it. Habit, I guess. And ease. It doesn’t get in my way or my eyes as much in a braid. It’s also just a personal style preference. Plus, I remember reading somewhere that the three strands of a braid represented your past, present and future. Only two strands are visible. The past is the backbone holding the whole thing together. You can only see the present and future. I guess something about that spoke to me and I liked the idea of it.”

  “Only you could make a hairstyle meaningful.”

  “Hey! I’m not the one who came up with the idea.”

  “But you did buy into it, which makes you just as guilty of Hippyism.”

  “Whatever.” I stick my tongue out at him in a beautiful display of maturity.

  “It’s true. You’re like a much cooler, prettier, more rebellious version of Mother Earth.”

  “Aww, you think I’m pretty?” I tease before making my move and lunging at him. He sees me coming however and springs up from the bench, running away from me down the beach.

  Laughing, I chase after him like we’re two instead of twenty-two. My ankle bracelet makes a merry jingle with my movements. I catch up to him and jump on his back, fixing myself to him like a tortoise shell. Our laughter is uncontrollable at this point and drawing the amused attention of everyone on the beach as he spins in circles, trying to throw me off.

  “Apologize!”

  “Never!”

  Playing dirty, I rub my palm over the top of his head.

  “Not the hair! Anything but the hair!”

  “Apologize!”

  “I don’t negotiate with terrorists! Let the hair go!”

  I use both of my hands to create a glorious mess. He likes to look low-maintenance, but I know that those perfect golden waves don’t happen without the use of time and products.

  “Fine! I surrender! White flag! White flag!”

  “Good.”

  All forgiven, I release his precious hair to his relief and wrap my arms around his neck as he holds onto my legs. I lean down and kiss him on the cheek. “That’s all you had to say.”

  “You know you’re crazy, right?” he says as he gives me a piggyback ride back toward the bench.

  “Absolutely, certifiably, gloriously.”

  He laughs at this, not expecting my answer. “Just checking.”

  Tristan sets me down once we make it back to the bench, which thankfully hasn’t been occupied in our absence, and wraps his right arm around my shoulder once we’re seated.

  “So, my crazy, almost-birthday girl, do you want your present now?”

  “Yes, please!”

  He chuckles at my childish eagerness and leans down to rummage in his rucksack, which is at his feet. Finding whatever he was looking for, he sits back up and hands me a small square box, which is wrapped in this amazing black paper with white daisies. “This paper is perfect! Where did you find it?” I say, hugging him in glee at how well he knows me.

  “I’m glad you like it. I’m considering adding ‘Daisy’ to your roster of nicknames.”

  “No, don’t do that. I adore the name, but it will be like you have so many girls on rotation that you’ve forgotten my name and are calling me one of theirs.”

  His laughter booms and echoes. “You have a mind like no one else I know. Okay, point taken. I’ll just stick to Tilda and Baby Bear, though for the record I’m a one-woman sort of man. No girls on rotation for me. Plus, you’re unforgettable.”

  “Good to know, smooth one.” I raise a mocking eyebrow.

  “So, back to the present…literally.”

  “Oh, yes! Sorry, I was distracted by the beautiful shiny paper.” Usually, I’m a ripper. The sort of person who tears through wrapping paper with youthful abandon. But this paper is far too pretty to shred so I’m
taking my time with it, removing the tape and folding the paper with care when I remove it all. Lifting the lid on a plain black jewelry box, I gasp at the contents, tears springing to my eyes.

  With more delicacy than I realized I possessed, I reach into the box and take out the most beautiful antique stopwatch I’ve ever seen. It’s round, and made from either solid rose gold or bronze with miniature clocks intricately etched into the metal. The tiny hands on the face are exquisite, curved and ending with large pointing arrows. The tiny cursive numbers are written in silver leaf, and a graceful chain has been added for me to wear around my neck. The craftsmanship of this piece is unlike anything I’ve seen or owned before. You couldn’t buy something like this today, and if you could, it would cost you thousands. To call it stunning does not do it justice.

  I bring my reluctant gaze away from the watch to look up at Tristan, who is watching me with a cautious expression.

  “W…w...what…how?” is my incoherent mumble.

  Somehow, he knows what I’m asking because he understands me, even when I’m not making sense.

  He gets me.

  “It was my grandfather’s.”

  On hearing this, I start to protest. I can’t accept something that belonged to someone Tristan cared about so much; he should have it. Yet again, he knows what I’m going to say before I even speak.

  “Don’t you even think about it. I want you to have it. He would want you to have it. He would have loved you. He treasured this watch. His father bought it for him for his eighteenth birthday. Even though it’s in immaculate condition, it was well loved. I thought...” He hesitates and I wonder why. “I thought you needed something tangible to help you embrace the concept of time. I always remember you saying it was your least favorite four-letter word and I know the word itself is not what you don’t like, but the thing it represents. I thought that with this, you could make your own time, and maybe learn to enjoy it. Maybe even make it your favorite four-letter word.”

  “Make my own time?” I question, unsure of what he means.

  “Yeah, it’s a stopwatch, so whenever you’re in the moment, whenever something beautiful, or amazing, or life-affirming happens that you want to capture, I thought you could press the pause button and ‘freeze’ time so that you can soak it all in until you’ve had your fill.” He takes the stopwatch from me and demonstrates before handing it back. “I know real time will technically continue, but you’d at least have control over your own time.”

  He glances at me to see what I think and misinterprets the stunned expression on my face. “I’m doing a terrible job of explaining it, aren’t I?” he says with a face full of insecurity and encroaching disappointment at the thought that I may not like or understand his gift.

  “No,” I whisper, the potential tears making good on their threat to fall. I brush them away with my free hand before giving him the reassurance he needs. “Your explanation was perfect. I’m just in awe of this gift, in awe of you. No one’s ever given me the gift of time before. I didn’t even know it was possible. You make the impossible, possible for me. Thank you is too inadequate a sentiment for what I’m holding in my hand right now. I think I might treasure this even more than the sketch you gave me of Oscar and me at the funeral, and that’s my most prized possession.”

  “Really?” He beams, his body deflating in relief that I don’t hate the gift.

  “Absolutely.”

  “You know if you keep it running like that, you’re going to have to change the batteries regularly?”

  “I don’t care. I love it.”

  “You haven’t even seen the best bit yet.” He bounces with excitement, reaching for the stopwatch again and turning it over in my open palm.

  When I realize what he’s referring to, I suck air into my lungs. I don’t know what I was expecting, but looking at the words he’s had engraved, I don’t know how I could have expected any different. There, on the back of his grandfather’s treasured antique stopwatch, he’s had engraved especially for me, especially for us:

  ‘It always comes back to T.I.M.E.

  Make it yours. Make it count.’

  And then, I’m not just crying, I’m sobbing.

  My face wets, my shoulders shake, and water runs through my splayed fingers.

  But I’m happy. And touched. And blessed.

  Blessed to have this extraordinary man in my life who understands me. This amazing man, who cares about me enough to give me the gift of time. To empower me with the tools to make my own.

  The same man who is staring at me in fear, concern, and bemusement.

  “You’re my best friend, you know that right?” I tell him through my tears.

  He smiles at this, shaking his head at my antics, before looping his arm around my neck and bringing me into his chest for a hug. I love how tactile he has become, it’s like he craves touch. I wrap my free arm around his waist as he kisses the top of my head. “And you’re mine.”

  And it’s this moment. In my best friend’s arms, with the sun in the sky, life in my blood, and magic in the air, that I reach between us, press pause, and make the moment ours.

  “SO HE BOUGHT you a watch. What’s the big deal?” a confused Blaise asks, causing all the women at the table to groan at his obtuseness.

  “Not just any watch, his grandfather’s watch. And it’s not the watch that’s the most important part—he gave her the gift of time,” Erin explains in her soft Irish lilt. Her glorious voice is so melodic that I could listen to it all day. Sometimes my untrained American ears have to concentrate hard to understand what she’s saying, but she could recite the alphabet and I’d still be enchanted.

  “It’s so romantic,” Maia says on a wistful sigh.

  At this, Blaise and Jacob give each other a look that needs no translation. If that look were a word, it would be “Women.”

  With a full stop. And an eye roll.

  “I’m pretty sure you can’t give someone the gift of time. Who does Trist think he is? God? Gandalf?”

  “Dumbledore?” a helpful Jacob adds. At this, the boys both burst into laughter, congratulating each other on their incredible wit while the rest of us sit straight-faced, straining not to smile.

  “Plus you guys aren’t together,” Jacob states once he’s settled, looking at me for confirmation, which I give with a nod. “So how can it be romantic?”

  “You don’t have to be with someone for a gesture to be romantic.”

  “I’m pretty sure you do,” Blaise says, laughing again.

  Maia throws her hands in the air. “I give up! If you two still don’t get it, you never will.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “And me.”

  We women give each other a look that roughly translates to “Men.”

  With a full stop. And an eye roll.

  Then we change the subject to topics their simple minds can comprehend.

  All joking aside, I’ve had a brilliant evening with my new friends. Conversation has flowed, raucous laughter has been shared, and our bond has been made even stronger than it was before we walked into this amazing Korean restaurant, which Jacob recommended.

  As an exasperated Maia shows Blaise the correct way to hold chopsticks for the fifth time, I allow myself to fade to the periphery of the conversation, taking a step back to resume the familiar role of observer, rather than participant. However, I’m no longer on the outside looking in, but on the inside looking around. This new vantage point makes all the difference. It’s amazing how a change of perspective can change a life.

  As I absorb the animated faces and excitable gestures of this group to which I belong, I take a moment to be grateful. For once, I don’t think about what I’ve lost and who isn’t here, I center myself in the now, and focus on those who are present. I take comfort in the fact that everyone around the table has at least fifty years left to live.

  My stopwatch is resting in its new home around my neck on top of the flowing black chiffon top I’m wearing. I’ve p
aired it with my best black skinny jeans and heels, which I rarely wear. It complements the beautiful small eighteen-karat gold dream catcher earrings that my mom presented me with earlier, which I’m proud to showcase.

  I don’t have many people in my life, but the ones that are here know me well. Trying to do something different, I have more makeup on than usual, and my hair is in a sophisticated up-do with French braids that my mom helped me with before I left for dinner.

  I don’t feel any older or wiser, but I am more content than I’ve been in a long time. My dad always said happiness was fleeting; contentment is what we should strive for. Happiness will come and go. It’s foolish to pursue it, as so many do, and believe it will be lasting. Even though bad things may still happen and not every day will be a good one, contentment is the underlying sense of calm and bliss that you experience when you put your life into perspective and focus on your blessings instead of your inadequacies and misfortunes.

  My dad argued that happiness was so often tied to material things. How often do you hear people saying, “I will be happy when I get/I do/I achieve…” Contentment focuses on your spiritual rather than material well-being. It comes from within, not external sources.

  Basking in my current contentment, I know that this is a moment worth immersing myself in, so without anyone noticing and spoiling the moment with mockery, I reach for the stopwatch button and press pause. As is to be expected of young artists, we’ve taken dozens of photographs between us tonight, but right now, I try to capture everything with my soul.

  After a while, the noise I’d blocked out while time was suspended starts to filter back in. Lights become brighter, voices louder, and my senses are once again overloaded and on alert. Pressing the button on the clock to allow my time to flow back into real time, I re-join the conversation and laughter without difficulty.

  A couple of minutes later, Blaise interrupts our discussions by hitting his knife on his glass of soda so hard that I worry it might break.

  “Careful, muscle man,” Jacob murmurs.

  Blaise ignores him and clears his throat, waiting for a hush to descend.