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by Dennis Doud
05/22/18
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I rolled over this morning - about 25 minutes late.

Nuts. I need an alarm clock.

Oh no. An alarm clock. THE Alarm Clock.

I shuddered without thinking and then utilized the same mental acuity to stumble into the kitchen for a cup of the Elixir of Knowledge.

The Elixir is now steadying my nerves, guiding me into that familiar caffeinated twitching to which I've grown accustomed.

Hey. It's not that I'm scared of alarm clocks.
Or view them with heretical disdain as some of the Bio-Clock-Rhythm-Au-Naturel brethren.

I'm OK with alarm clocks. I have an alarm clock on the iPhone the kids gave me. It's behind one of those logos. Somewhere. I found it once and awoke, on time, to the regal and surprisingly peaceful sound of Westminister chimes.

But THE Alarm Clock? No. Not OK. THE Alarm Clock is to alarm clocks what Chucky is to dolls.

Evil. Pure evil.

Excuse me. I need another cup of the Elixir. Talking about it still gives me the creeps. Okay, I can do this.

Dad got me a job on a sod crew for the summer after my freshman year at college. (He was making sure I had the impetus to head back to school. Smart man, my dad.)

I had to be up'n'out by quarter to 6 to hit the Golden Arches for some minute-made manna and still be at the job by 6:30. So I bought an alarm clock.

THE Alarm Clock.

It was made in the classic style. Bright shiny brass body, glass face with those two little bells on top and that cute little hammer between 'em. There was also a convenient thin strand of brass looping elegantly above the bells and hammer. Perfect for transporting said clock around the house. Or flinging it into the closet.

Truly a multi-purpose design.

And, really, things were great all week. I got back exhausted from work, shoveled something into my face, plopped on the sofa for an hour of TV, then to the room, set the alarm, and immediately collapsed into a fatigued slumber just a few heartbeats above death.

Then Saturday came. That day of the week when youthful stupidity runs rampant. I stayed up late at Country Kitchen, Denny's, and Sambo's just hangin' out with my peeps - or as Dad called them, "The Pack of Idiots".

Some guys bar-hopped. We coffee-hopped.

Arriving home fully caffeinated, I plopped down on the bed, staring at the dark, thinking about everything and nothing. Just me and THE Alarm Clock.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...

I began to doze off, my breathing and pulse matching the metronome beat.

Tock-tick.

Wha....?

Semi-conscious, I waited through another sequence.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tock-tick.

I shut my eyes so hard my eyelids cramped.

Gotta get to sleep. Gotta...

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tock-tick.

Arrrrgh. Even through pillow-stuffed ears...

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tock-tick.

The next morning Mom came in to wake me for Sunday School & Church. She went to hang up my Sunday Best in the closet and stopped.

"Why is the alarm clock under all your clothes?"

"It's evil, Mom. Pure evil."

I told the folks over breakfast what happened. Mom rolled her eyes and smiled at Dad. Dad shook his head in resignation to the intelligence of his progeny.

"Okay. You guys use it tonight."

Around bedtime Dad poked his head into my bedroom.

"G'night.", he said as he lifted up THE Alarm Clock, waggled it in my direction, and left - chuckling.

Monday morning found me stumbling into the kitchen for the Elixir of Knowledge. Dad was sitting at the table, staring into his coffee cup. As I walked over, something shiny caught my eye.

THE Alarm Clock. It was in the trash can.

I turned to Dad. Our eyes met. I started to say something, but realized I wanted to live.

We sat in silence, drinking the Elixir, and bonding over a terror shared.

I sit here today at the table, reliving that moment some 50 years later as a thought floats from the bottom of the coffee cup.

I've heard that a man with two clocks is never sure of the time but if they tick-tock correctly at least he can get to sleep.

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