A Peculiar Gizmo

It was the first actually warm spring day, and it was perfect for the deep cleaning project that’d been on my mind for a while now. I’d opened every single window in our apartment to let the fresh air flush out the stale dust of winter.

I slid my feet into flip-flops, grabbed the three black trash bags I’d already managed to fill, and ran out. I didn’t even bother locking the door. I’d have been back in a minute anyway. I pulled the door by the handle, banging it shut behind me.

About four steps down the stairs, I felt it. I was holding something I shouldn’t have.

Fuck.

The door handle.

Tiny bits of metal fell on the floor in front of me as I was trying to wiggle it back into the hole.

Shit.

It hadn’t just come loose. It was broken. I leaned against the door with my whole bodyweight and pushed as hard as I could. It did nothing.

I was locked out. Well, that’s technically not true. I was... shut out?

I lived on the third floor. So, entering through a window was not an option either.

And before I could even finish swearing in my mind, another realisation hit me. I'd only run out to take the trash to the bins. I hadn't taken my phone with me.  

Fuck.

Fuckidy.

Fuck.

I sat there on the stairs, a sad pile of trash bags in front of me, the broken door handle on my knees, and I thought this had to be a joke. Something like this doesn’t happen to people outside of sitcoms. Right?

After the initial should-I-laugh-or-cry moment, I started weighing my options. Knock on a neighbour’s door? Wait for my boyfriend to come home? Walk to his workplace?

Before I could decide, I got a message notification on my watch.

Then it hit me. Yes, my phone was on the other side of the stuck door, but I could still use it.

I jumped up and stood as close to the door as I could—just in case—and clicked my boyfriend's name on the watch’s call log. The call went through with no problems.

Luckily, he wasn’t too busy and promised to come as quickly as possible.

While all that was happening, a memory of my grandpa—papa, we used to call him—arose. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him standing there, slightly translucent, wearing his city clothes—brown tweed trousers, a matching vest and a flat cap.

As I was waiting for my boyfriend to come to my rescue, my mind wandered.

Papa was 81 years old when he first saw a Skype call. I remember it so clearly. I’d called my sister who lives in France and a mix of confusion and worry spread across Papa’s face when he realised it wasn’t just a picture of my sis on the screen, but an actual live broadcast coming from the other side of Europe. The casual conversation through a screen had been something straight out of a science fiction movie to him.

The translucent Papa in my periphery had that same expression now. I wondered what he would make of the situation here. Not about me breaking the door handle—I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t surprise him. Surely, he would remember the kind of rascal I used to be as a child, always getting in trouble.

I wondered what he would think of me talking to the screen on my wrist. I bet he’d have a heap of questions. I let myself imagine him here with me.

Come on, Papa. I’ll show you.

And just like that, we weren’t in the stairwell anymore. Papa was in my living room, following my morning routine.

My day starts with an alarm. No-no, I don’t have that metal clock with a rooster on it. I know I loved to play with it when I was a child, but look, I can just set an alarm on my watch. When the time is right, it just buzzes.

He points his finger at my watch and looks at me with his eyebrows raised.

Papa sits at the kitchen table when I start working on today's pastry orders. He says I remind him of my grandmother. It fills me with warmth.

Now I just set the timer, and when it goes off, the dough should be perfectly proofed. I narrate everything I do for him.

Papa pulls an old metal kitchen timer from his pocket and tells me I can keep it if I’d like. I tell him that there’s no need for that. Just two taps on my watch set the timer.

He listens to me and nods.

I ask if I can keep his timer regardless. He nods once more.

A second look at the recipe tells me I’m short on eggs. I’ll have to pop to the store, I tell Papa.

He stands up quickly—faster than I remember him moving—and says he’ll walk with me.

At the shop, I scan a carton of eggs with my phone, hurry to the self-checkout, scan the QR code on the screen, and pay contactless with my watch. One long beep tells me we’re good to go.

Dear… did you? Papa whispers, leaning closer to me.

Haha, no, I didn’t steal them. I paid at that machine there.

But... the money?

I didn’t use cash. I paid by card through my watch.

I haven’t seen my papa in fourteen years, so I hook my arm around his and enjoy feeling like a little girl again, even if it’s just in my mind.

Papa’s glance jumps from me to the eggs and over his shoulder every now and then. Are you sure you paid for these eggs? I can give you money if you’re short, sweetheart.

I rest my head on his shoulder and squeeze his arm a little. Thank you, Papa, but I promise you, I did pay for them. The security guard saw us leave and didn’t say anything, remember?

That seems to have calmed him a bit.

Back at the apartment, I continue baking. Papa sits at the kitchen table and observes me. He asks what is so funny about the little computer on my wrist when I smile at a text from a friend. I explain it isn't about the watch, but about the message my friend sent me.

Message? Like a letter, he asks. In there?

Yeah, kind of, but a short one. Just a few sentences. He peers at me for a long time. 

I’m kneading dough when my phone rings. Without pausing my work or reaching for the phone, I tap on the green answer button with my nose and say hello loudly.
Papa stares at me as if I’m insane. When a hello comes out of my watch, he straightens his back, and mouths, It talks?

I laugh a bit. It’s Mom calling, I say and nod toward my watch. You can say hi to her. She can hear you.

After a hesitant pause, Papa tears his eyes away from my face and focuses on the screen. He says hello in a way people do in horror films when entering haunted houses.

He listens to our conversation, but doesn't say anything else himself.

The dough is rising and I figure it’s a perfect time to squeeze in a little run. Papa rides his cool red tricycle next to me.

When we’re halfway done, he asks why I keep checking the watch and whether we’re in a hurry.

I explain that I’m just keeping an eye on the pace, my heart rate, and that the watch tells me how far we've run.

Papa’s eyes jump between me and the screen on my watch. The expression on his face is like mine was in high school physics classes. You know, the one that says, I hear sounds that resemble words, but none of them mean anything.

It... tells you all that?

Yes, see. I turn the screen toward him. All the information is right here. It's very convenient, you know.

Back at the apartment, we're having a nice conversation when I notice that Papa keeps glancing at my watch.

Dear… he starts, you keep calling the gizmo on your wrist 'watch' but it doesn’t tell time.

Of course it tells time. But the screen only wakes up when I turn it toward myself.

I demonstrate it by turning the screen toward him. His eyes go wide and he swallows slightly when the screen lights up and shows him 16:14, Fri 17 Apr.

Alright, he answers quickly, taking my hands into his and smiling the way you smile at a child who has just told you their fantasy story about unicorns and mermaids. But what happens if it breaks… or if you lose it?

I open my mouth, but my boyfriend’s footsteps on the stairs tear me out of my daydream, away from the conversation with my papa. I quickly hug him before he vanishes completely and come back to reality.

My rescuer kissed me on the top of my head, opened the toolbox he took from work because, well… all his own were stuck behind the very same door he came to take down. Very soon, my Prince Charming had freed me from the locked tower!

Or, you know, let me back into my own home. Potato-potatho.

I glanced at the gizmo on my wrist and chuckled. All that, but it won’t open a door. That still takes two good hands, a toolbox, and a helpful boyfriend.

Oh, and as a bonus, he took the trash out when he went back to work.

The gizmo won’t do that either.