On one of my visits to the hospital for diagnostics, I met a foe, nay a nemesis. To this day remembering its face and what it did with its hands makes me grind my teeth in quiet unending fury. I speak of course, about the diabolically deviant waiting room clock.
What?
It may seem strange to get so riled up about a simple timepiece but this was no mere chronological instrument. At face value, it appeared as nothing more than your standard industrial wall clock, seen throughout schools, hospitals, and corner stores for decades. However, through design or gradual failure, the clock had become an exquisite device of mental torture.
The clock was straightforward in design. It was a 12-hour clock utilizing the standard ring of numbers 1 to 12 and three hands to denote the hour, minute, and second. It also ticked.
So what’s so bad about it?
We’ll start with the tick: clearly, the tick was intended to count every second but it irregularly fell silent every 2, 3, or 4 ticks. The pattern didn’t repeat and you were never sure when the gaping maw of sudden silence would suddenly fall upon you.
Now we come to the second hand. While most clocks of this variety have the second hand keep pace with the tick that wasn’t good enough for this clock. Oh no, this clock’s second hand didn’t have the comforting stutter movements of gears but the fluid constant motion of spinning disc. Watching that second hand go round with unflinching purpose made it feel like it was draining your life away and would never stop.
Are you going to be okay?
I’m fine, just fine. Let’s move on to the minute hand. While far less soul-sucking than the second hand the minute hand still set my teeth on edge. With every 60 second rotation, the minute hand would shoot past the next minute hesitate then slowly resettle back onto the number properly. It reminded me of an unruly child that runs ahead and is constantly called to heel by their parent.
The hour hand did nothing special that I could ascertain during my sojourn into that office of chronological debauchery. It just smugly ticked past the hours while the other clock functions ran roughshod over my senses.
The day I no longer had to return to that waiting room was a sweet release. I sincerely hope with all my heart that clock and I never again meet.