The Pocket Watch

Roderick Beaumont stood graveside in the pouring rain, one hand holding a black umbrella while the other fidgeted with an old pocket watch. He traced his thumb along its outer case, which had the appearance of gold but was likely brass given his family’s humble origin. His finger moved over the glass face, running along the crack that started at “III” and meandered diagonally to “VII.” He finished by touching the crown, not bothering to twist it; he knew the watch stopped working long ago, so winding it was pointless.

Roderick stared at the spot where his father was buried hours before. Stared, but didn’t take in the churned-up earth. His mind was on other things, deeper things.

Troubling things.

His thumb resumed stroking the watch as he ruminated.

The timepiece had been purchased by his great-great-grandfather upon coming to America in the late 1890s, a splurge on his part, given he came to the States with a knapsack and nothing else. Since then, it had been passed down to the first male Beaumont in each successive generation. Its travelogue was impressive, starting when his great-grandpa Joseph took it to Europe at the height of World War One. The watch proved to be a good-luck charm, seeing Joseph through The Second Battle of the Marne before returning home to America at the Great War’s conclusion. Later, the watch made a trip to the beaches of Normandy with Grandpa Ben. From there it kept Roderick’s father safe in Vietnam. Physically safe, anyway. His dad was never considered “normal” upon his return to civilian life, traumatized by the things he’d seen and done during his stint in the jungle.

When Roderick turned eighteen the watch was entrusted to him, the expectation being that he’d also join the military before discharging, settling down, and carrying on the Beaumont name.

None of which transpired.

Roderick knew from an early age he wanted no part of the armed forces. Too much discipline for his liking. Marriage also held no appeal after seeing his parents fight like cats and dogs before divorcing when he was twelve. And kids? Shit. Fuck that.

Yet he still carried the watch everywhere he went.

While he hadn’t been dumb enough to enlist like all the other chumps his age after the Twin Towers fell, there was no doubt he possessed an inordinate amount of luck, much like his forefathers did. What started as selling dime bags of weed to classmates had grown into an empire, with Roderick as the kingpin. He had excellent relations with his Colombian suppliers, no run-ins with the law, subordinates who did what they were told, and had survived a half-dozen assassination attempts with nary a scratch. He was good at what he did, and worked hard to minimize personal risk while growing the business…but he couldn’t help wondering if the watch was the reason for his success, a talisman that had brought him good fortune.

And that drove him crazy.

After all, he was smart, intuitive, cunning. He alone built his life from the ground up. Him, Roderick fucking Beaumont. He was the one who exerted his will and power and control, raking in millions of dollars every year. Not some fucking antiquated timepiece!

Roderick looked at his other watch, the Patek Philippe that was very much in working order, a gift to himself after he’d made his first million all those years ago.

Thirty minutes he’d been standing there, waffling.

“Fuck this,” he muttered.

He dropped the pocket watch into the quagmire atop his father’s casket, then lifted his three-thousand-dollar Allen Edmonds loafer to stomp it into the mud. The shoe would be ruined, but to hell with it; he had another dozen pairs at home.

The watch splooged forward as Roderick’s foot was swallowed by the muck. Arms pinwheeling, he lost the fight to regain his balance and toppled into his father’s tombstone, caving in his skull.

B lood leaking from the gash on his forehead, legs spasming as the life drained out of him, Roderick saw the pocket watch lying a few feet away, the second-hand ticking for the first time in decades, the crack in its face appearing to smile at him.

Bio: Andrew Monge (Twitter/Bluesky/Substack: @MuchAdoAboutNil) lives in Minnesota with his wife and kids. A computer programmer by day and a voracious reader by night, he is a lifelong introvert who only finds his voice while writing. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Genrepunk Awards, appearing at Punk Noir Magazine, Trash Cat Lit, Urban Pigs Press, Shotgun Honey, Major 7th Magazine, Micromance Magazine, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, Pistol Jim Press, and Mythic Picnic.