A Fondness for Watches

I don't care at all for jewelry or the like, as I consider them to be women's domain, although from some of my readings, during the earliest days of recorded tribal history here and in other parts of the world, men fancied jewelry, trinkets, ornaments of precious and semi-precious stones and metals, as much as women did, linking these to their social status, or to skills in hunting or waging war. Over time, on the road to present-day, modern man, the jewelry have been replaced with other things, like fiefdoms, harems, slaves, gadgets, liquid assets, fast and exotic cars, and Cialis-aided sexual conquests. But there are those who still cling to the old norms; or maybe not: They're probably just vain or effeminate, or both.

I must admit, though, that up to the age of 11 or 12, I fancied those hand-made rings of either kamagong hardwood or stainless steel that could be bought from souvenir shops at Mines View Park in Baguio City. I bought them, not for looks, but for functionality. I wore them as I considered them handy in case I had to punch someone in the face, and be able to inflict some considerable degree of pain. No, I was not particularly a troublemaker, but I believed there are certain situations in life when you have to make your point using brawn. But my fancy for rings was rather brief, and from then on it was my desire to inflict pain thru other, more creative, more effective means, like hurtful words and deeds, or indifference, for instance. I realized that inflicting pain through pure muscle produces damage that is sharp but rather short-lived. It heals, like all physical wounds do. But the pain and wound from words that cut, and evil deeds that slice, are like stubborn, gangrenous sores that curse lives for good. My modus of hurting has evolved into something finer and more brutal.

And so in the natural process of growing old (though not necessarily becoming more mature), I progressively outgrew stuff, like clothes, games, toys, friends, ideas, beliefs, desires, and even dreams. But never my fascination with wristwatches. I don't know, but maybe I was born with it; it's in my genes. I am firstborn, and my coming into the world may have caused my parents much excitement. Or anxiety. Either way, they may have glanced at their watches more often than was usual, and (allow me to postulate a theory) this might have rubbed off on me as some sort of fetal imprint. I'm not so sure if this has sound scientific basis, but it is one of Man's passions to find every conceivable explanation for everything. It matters not if it proceeds from a logical premise, or is totally insane; there simply has to be one. It seems almost inescapable. Its lack is deemed as ineptitude, or guilt. We always try to explain ourselves, or to blame others, so long as it answers the question of why.

The very first wristwatch I ever owned was a gold-plated, manually-wound, Swiss-made Lyric Galaxie, with a white dial and leather strap. I got it for my 8th birthday, when I was in the third grade. It was rather smallish, perfect for a boy's wrist. It was also one of life's happiest moments, to finally possess my very own wristwatch, to be able to tell time at a glance, to be one with the watch-wearing crowd. I was among the handful in my class who wore a wristwatch, and it made me very proud. I always looked forward to wearing it, the final and most special part of my dressing ritual. I thought it looked becoming on my thin, pale wrist, complementing my entire being with an air of sophistication. I maybe glanced at the time on my wrist every three minutes or so, or whenever I could, always checking if time was ticking as it should, or if a speck of dust obscured its handsome face. Whichever it was, it wasn't really about doing a time check, but plainly wanting to look at the watch and enjoy its every curve and corner. It was actually an obsession.

The Lyric was hard-earned, the result of a promise and a child's determination. Mom promised that if I could tell the time at a glance she would buy me a wristwatch. It was a challenge difficult to pass up, considering my relationship with wristwatches. I then proceeded to perfect my time-telling skills. The drill consisted of being able to tell time instantaneously, knowing which hour is marked by the small hand, even if it's between two numbers, and which minute is marked by the big hand, without counting by fives, "five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five,..." I was drilled (by Mom and Dad, of course) at random times in the day, and at random locations. What time is it now? The question could have popped up as I awoke very early on a school day, with disheveled hair and morning breath and those "funny things" in my eyes Mom called "morning stars;" or as we prepared to leave for Sunday mass, as Dad backed out of the driveway' or as the priest gave his final blessing, signaling the end of the service, which was (and up to now) my favorite part of a church service. I've always thought that the majority of priests dole out long, boring, irrelevant homilies, and to endure an hour or so of it should be considered an act of penance in itself, thus absolving me of my wrongdoings. This is my opinion, of course, and the priests have their own respective ones, and they are always miles apart from mine. I've long stopped looking up to priests and their homilies as sources of inspiration. A good lot of them fraternize with my most hated animals - politicians and their minions - and generously dispense divine blessings to the rich and powerful, for the express purpose of getting favors in return. From these, their deeds, one can come to the conclusion that society's dregs, the impoverished, have limited or difficult access to the promises of Heaven.

I was resolute in winning my prize, and so did my best to pass the drills which lasted for some several months before my 8th birthday. The promise was fulfilled, and the determination, rewarded. The Lyric was on my wrist for the most part of my waking hours; at school, at home, to church, to kin's homes, on errands to the neighborhood sari-sari store, during family meals, and while struggling with homework. About the only place where I didn't wear it was inside the bathroom, I think. I never forgot who were instrumental in providing me with my new-found joy, and was grateful at every opportunity. Mom didn't have to call me twice to run an errand for her, and I shined Dad's office shoes for free. Benjie and I earned 25 centavos for every pair shined, and this was how we earned some money to buy all those things children like to buy from a sari-sari store.

I remember the time when we were invited for dinner by the Ellises at their home in Dasmariñas Village, along Pasay Road at the corner of Pasong Tamo. Jim Ellis was an American expat and was my dad's colleague. Together with his wife, Marsha, and daughter, Julie, they lived out a quite ordinary life in the Philippines. I thought Julie was cute, with her beautiful, expressive eyes framed by prescription glasses. She was blond, too, and was about my age. And I also thought she had the most magnificent toy, a battery-operated television which could automatically feed and show picture slides! I always looked forward to the family being invited over to the Ellis home, as each invite gave me an opportunity to seek out Julie and her toy TV. Not necessarily always in that order, though. Sometimes it was only the toy TV that mattered, at other times, only Julie. I believe I was at that age when my psyche was trying to strike out a balance between toys and the opposite sex, when it was constantly trying to decide which was more important. When I was courting my wife, that same psyche had fully developed, and neither TV programs nor movies, for that matter, held any sway, if you get my drift. I distinctly recall one time, while at the Ellis dinner table, Marsha asked me about my Lyric and who gave it to me. Not wanting to embarrass myself through an inappropriate response, I stared at the food on my plate, as if trying to look for clues and help in the rice and meat morsels. It took me some seconds to answer the very simple question, and our hosts and my folks probably thought I didn't hear, or that I was too shy. Or plain dumb. I took a glance at my Lyric and declared in grammar-perfect, Paco Catholic School English, "My mother and father gave it to me." Hooray.

The Lyric was my reliable accessory for many years, up to the time I graduated from high school. And when the original strap broke (I was about 12), I replaced it with a wide, brown, leather strap, something that was very fashionable in the early 70's. The two were together for something like two years, and when that strap broke (and went out of fashion), I replaced it with something ordinary and mainstream, something made of nylon. Looking back, the watch was a mute witness to some of our family's happiest moments (and sad and difficult ones, too), and to my awkward transition from young boy to early manhood, including my two episodes of being left behind at school and having to walk home, enabling me to discover hitherto hidden strengths, strengths that probably keep me going despite failures, disappointments, and a never-ending procession of gloomy scenarios.

I went through a succession of watches after my very first one, which I was forced to retire due to its glass case developing a crack and then popping out entirely. Mom's elder sister from Canada, whom she called "Diche," and who is also my godmother, presented me with a Timex watch during one of her homecomings. It was gold-plated, had a squarish case, and was self-winding, a technological upgrade from my Lyric. While it was nice, I was not totally faithful to it. I ached for the latest at the time, the Octo electronic digital LED watch. Its face was totally black, and the time was displayed as red, piercing, pulsating digits when one presses one of the two or three protruding crowns. It was space-age! The watch stores along Avenida Rizal each teemed with inventory of the Octo, square and circular cases, gold-plated and stainless ones, all very expensive and out of reach. I made up for my inability to purchase an Octo by making an almost daily detour to Avenida on my way home from the university, to ogle at Octos behind glass display cases. It's the story of my life, I think; always on the outside looking in, never on the inside.

Other watches came into my life, but I haven't been able to keep them all. One, a Titus Jetpower Super with 77 jewels, given by my maternal grandfather to Dad, and which I acquired through a combination of annoying persistence and creativity (actually a trade for my second Lyric Galaxie, also manually-wound but with a stainless steel case and stainless steel bracelet), burned in the Harrison Plaza fire sometime in the late 70's. I left it with a watch repair shop to have the cracked crystal replaced, but I was never able to get it back. Then in 1979, after Mom and Dad's sortie in the U.K.and the U.S., on a combination business and pleasure trip, Benjie and I were the more-than-happy recipients of Citizen LCD watches, the latest at the time. They were elegant, stainless steel, functional beauties, and we wore and showed them off. They don't make them like those anymore. Even Japanese watchmakers have fallen victim to the outsourcing phenomenon, and the Chinese now make or assemble their watches.

I have a dozen or so watches in my small collection, and I'm quite certain I will reach the end of my allotted time without being able to make it significantly sizeable. My dream watches are simply unattainable. Collecting watches isn't really for someone hampered by a lack of funds, definitely not for someone who has to make hard choices between buying watches and putting food on the table. Or who, if he chooses the former, becomes tormented by guilt for quite some time. But I maintain my attachment to watches, and there's no stopping it. Whenever I chance upon a watch store or a display case of watches, I must stop and take a look. It feels as essential as breathing.

One of my prized watches is a Seiko automatic chronograph, with stainless steel case and bracelet. It was a pasalubong from Dad, during one of his overseas trips. He was often on official travel as part of his job. This was in 1980, and this makes the watch rather vintage. I did some homework and discovered that this watch came out in 1969! The watch still keeps good time, having been serviced sometime in the late 90's by a master horologist in Bacoor, Cavite. I first brought the watch to the official service center, but the technician advised me that they no longer had the needed parts for it, and so he referred me to his mentor, one of the country's foremost watch experts.

Another prized watch is a Rado Diastar, black dial, gold-plated case and bracelet, and with small diamonds for numbers. It was a Christmas present from my wife in 1996. She spent a great deal of money on that watch, and although its price seemed incongruous to our economic stature back then (moreso today), it is a testament to how she will go to great lengths to cater to my every desire and whim. I'm one lucky bastard, for sure. And for sure I don't (and never did) deserve one of this world's most wonderful persons. For the reason that I have a most precious gift, I'm wanting in other things, and have failed in many respects. I've always held the belief that no single person is the recipient of every good thing Life has to offer. For each stroke of good fortune, there has to be a failing or misfortune somewhere. For every stroke of genius, there must be a disability or any other debilitation. It is never perfect. There is no perfection. There is always this gnawing need after the latest acquisition or conquest, and it makes our happiness short-lived, and our life, incomplete. Whenever I pine for something, the waiting and the dreaming are, to me, the most exciting parts of the pursuit. I'm still waiting for something, I know, but what?

I know this fondness for watches will be with me up to how old I'm destined to be, until death swallows me up, turning me into dust, but not my watches. If they take an interest, then my children can have my meager collection, and I hope they find either pleasure or utility, or both, in each of these fine, little, exquisite machines.