of the watch, a hundred dollar knockoff made in some hellish sweatshop in Bangladesh, Bangalore, Belarus or worse. But the wooden box itself must have cost a lot, and the specific details everywherelike how the blue of theinnervelvet exactly matched the blue on the mailing label…no, this had to be the real thing.
Heavy —the watch was so wonderfully heavy in his hand. It made him think of gold or some other precious metal that by weight alone tells you this shit is real ; you are holding something significant in your hand, Son.
On his wrist he carefully adjusted the band to fit, then closed the wide metal clasp. It was gorgeous—better than he had ever imagined. The gratifying heaviness, the size, the faint erotic smell of new leather still on the band (he brought it to his nose to get a few good deep sniffs), the sheer thereness of the watch on his, Tony Areal’s, wrist… He disliked and never used the by now exhausted word ‘awesome’ because everybody else did 24/7, but damn it this watch was awesome. There was no other way to describe it.
He took a deep happy breath, stood and walked across the room to a full length mirror mounted on a wall there. For the next few minutes he preened and posed in front of the long glass like a Milan model, arm stiff out in front, wrist and watch exposed to the mirror. Then watch hand on his chin, his hip, his opposite shoulder, thenstuffed into his jeans pocket but not deep enough to hide the silver beauty from the mirror’s admiring eye….Pose after different pose to see how his ‘Figure’ looked in various set ups. Tony Areal was not a vain man but if someone were to watch him in front of the mirror for those minutes they would have thought he was Narcissus loving his reflection in the pool. He even tried a DeNiro impersonation from Taxi Driver —“Are you talking to me?” He wanted to see if the watch’s magic gave him a little bit of Travis Bickle. It didn’t and he knew his imitation was awful but what the hell—why not? This timepiece could transform any Clark Kent into Superman.
Tony was a happy man. He had the watch. He had no idea why he had it or what great good person in his life had given it to him, but for now he was content letting that mystery dangle from his mind like a key on a keychain. He walked back to the table and picked up the mailing box. Yes indeed, it was addressed to him—Anthony Areal—no mistake about that. Mr. Areal was now the proud owner of one Lichtenberg ‘Figure’ watch. The End.
A week later it was the car. He worked in an office. He had a job. What he did at that job is not important. If I told you what it entailed you’d shrug, so let’s skip Anthony Areal’s professional bio and get right to the car. One day a bicycle messenger dressed all in yellow like a giant canary arrived in his office with a manila envelope for Tony. There was no return address on it which was sort of peculiar but sometimes it happened—a sender was in a hurry or simply forgot to put their address on.
When he opened it something fell out onto the floor—something metallic by the sound of it and heavy. Bending to pick it up, he saw it was a single fat key on a keychain. Both had the instantly recognizable gold, red and black logo of the Porsche automobile company on them.
Tony frowned, straightened, and dropped the keychain on his desk. He stared at it a moment before picking up the envelope again and looking inside. There were quite a few pieces of different size and colored paper which on inspection turned out to be a car registration, certificate of ownership, an auto insurance policy paid in full and even a membership to the national auto club—all in the name of Anthony Areal.
The last piece of paper had a neat handwritten note on it. “The car is in the parking lot. The gas tank is full. This is the license plate number. Of course it’s a gray metallic Cayman with coral red interior.” Almost instinctively after reading the
Heavy —the watch was so wonderfully heavy in his hand. It made him think of gold or some other precious metal that by weight alone tells you this shit is real ; you are holding something significant in your hand, Son.
On his wrist he carefully adjusted the band to fit, then closed the wide metal clasp. It was gorgeous—better than he had ever imagined. The gratifying heaviness, the size, the faint erotic smell of new leather still on the band (he brought it to his nose to get a few good deep sniffs), the sheer thereness of the watch on his, Tony Areal’s, wrist… He disliked and never used the by now exhausted word ‘awesome’ because everybody else did 24/7, but damn it this watch was awesome. There was no other way to describe it.
He took a deep happy breath, stood and walked across the room to a full length mirror mounted on a wall there. For the next few minutes he preened and posed in front of the long glass like a Milan model, arm stiff out in front, wrist and watch exposed to the mirror. Then watch hand on his chin, his hip, his opposite shoulder, thenstuffed into his jeans pocket but not deep enough to hide the silver beauty from the mirror’s admiring eye….Pose after different pose to see how his ‘Figure’ looked in various set ups. Tony Areal was not a vain man but if someone were to watch him in front of the mirror for those minutes they would have thought he was Narcissus loving his reflection in the pool. He even tried a DeNiro impersonation from Taxi Driver —“Are you talking to me?” He wanted to see if the watch’s magic gave him a little bit of Travis Bickle. It didn’t and he knew his imitation was awful but what the hell—why not? This timepiece could transform any Clark Kent into Superman.
Tony was a happy man. He had the watch. He had no idea why he had it or what great good person in his life had given it to him, but for now he was content letting that mystery dangle from his mind like a key on a keychain. He walked back to the table and picked up the mailing box. Yes indeed, it was addressed to him—Anthony Areal—no mistake about that. Mr. Areal was now the proud owner of one Lichtenberg ‘Figure’ watch. The End.
A week later it was the car. He worked in an office. He had a job. What he did at that job is not important. If I told you what it entailed you’d shrug, so let’s skip Anthony Areal’s professional bio and get right to the car. One day a bicycle messenger dressed all in yellow like a giant canary arrived in his office with a manila envelope for Tony. There was no return address on it which was sort of peculiar but sometimes it happened—a sender was in a hurry or simply forgot to put their address on.
When he opened it something fell out onto the floor—something metallic by the sound of it and heavy. Bending to pick it up, he saw it was a single fat key on a keychain. Both had the instantly recognizable gold, red and black logo of the Porsche automobile company on them.
Tony frowned, straightened, and dropped the keychain on his desk. He stared at it a moment before picking up the envelope again and looking inside. There were quite a few pieces of different size and colored paper which on inspection turned out to be a car registration, certificate of ownership, an auto insurance policy paid in full and even a membership to the national auto club—all in the name of Anthony Areal.
The last piece of paper had a neat handwritten note on it. “The car is in the parking lot. The gas tank is full. This is the license plate number. Of course it’s a gray metallic Cayman with coral red interior.” Almost instinctively after reading the
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