The Old Man's Watch

            I was young - probably seven - when Grandpa Vlad showed me the watch. 

            It was during one of our family trips to his home in Tucson. It was May, a hot time to visit. And after mom and dad exchanged pleasantries with Grandpa Vlad and Gramma Yulia, dropping off gifts of sun-kissed oranges and other luxuries, my sister Valeria and I played in their backyard. After a while, Grandpa Vlad came out to join us. I remember his English wasn’t good, and Valeria and I would make fun of it. But he spoke five languages: Russian (his mother tongue), Polish, Kazakh, German (very fluently), and English (which he learned ad hoc when he moved his family to America in the seventies). 

After playing under the Sonoran sun for a long time, I was feeling faint and slumped into the living room’s couch, trying to cool off under the righteous bursts of AC. Grandpa Vlad entered the room. He looked concerned. ‘Are you okay, my boy?’ 

‘Hot,’ I whispered. 

He nodded his head and disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with two large glasses of lemonade. A clear bottle was under his right arm. Grandpa Vlad set the lemonade and the bottle on the glass coffee table near the couch. The bottle had a label I couldn’t read.

I straightened to take my glass, but he stopped me. ‘Wait, little zaychik,’ he said softly. He opened the bottle and poured a little of its liquid into our lemonades, stirring them with their straws. 

‘What is that?’ I asked. 

‘The water of life.’ He gave me a glass, and we clinked them together. ‘Za zdorovye.’

I sipped my lemonade. It tasted funny, but then I felt light-headed and euphoric. 

‘Don’t tell your mother this,’ Grandpa Vlad said. ‘She wouldn’t approve.’

‘Why not, grandpa?’

He sighed roughly. ‘She has lost her connection to the motherland. She doesn’t understand.’ He tilted the glass to his lips and smiled afterward. ‘I was younger than you when I had my first taste. I came out good.’

We sat together and drank, the hum of the air conditioning cutting the stillness of the living room. He looked happier with every sip. His cheeks became bright pink. ‘You know what day it is today, little zaychik?’

‘May eighth?’

‘Yes, May eighth. An important day. You know why?’

I thought for a moment. But the only answer that came from my sluggish brain was, ‘Someone’s birthday?’

He chuckled. ‘Something like that. The birthday of a brand new world.’

‘I don’t understand, grandpa.’

He got up from the couch and went to his bookshelf. Below it were small drawers. He opened one and brought an accordion folder. When he sat back down, he pulled out a large black board. Attached to it were a collection of shining gold medals with colorful ribbons.

‘I earned these in the Great Patriotic War,’ he said, pride shaking the timbre of his voice.

‘What’s the Great Patriotic War?’

‘One of the biggest wars in human history.’

I recognized what he meant, but I had never heard of such a thing. ‘Who were you fighting, grandpa?’

‘The most evil men. Fascists. They invaded my country, destroyed it. They raped and murdered my people, my family.’

His tone was harsh and sorrowful. I never heard him sound like that before. I noticed something heavy and metallic at the bottom of the accordion folder. ‘What’s that?’

Grandpa Vlad’s eyebrows arched. He hummed a toneless sound, acting as if caught in an act. His hand reached into the folder and pulled out the object. It was a black wristwatch, its strap cracked and fragile. There was a word I couldn’t read on its dial face. He hefted the watch in his hand. ‘A gift. A gift I got in Berlin.’ He spoke slowly, as if thinking what to say. 

‘When did you get it, grandpa?’

‘1945.’

My eyes grew wide in wonder. It was the oldest thing I had ever seen. I couldn’t fathom it. ‘It’s that old?’

‘It’s that old, little zaychik. Maybe older.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

Grandpa Vlad gave me a serene look. He put the watch and his medals back into the folder. ‘It might be yours someday.’

When I was older - maybe nineteen - my mother called to tell me that Grandpa Vlad had died. He had been doing poorly in his later years, especially after Gramma Yulia died, needing to go to hospice care for his last months. Mom told me she needed help cleaning out his house in Tucson. I agreed to come. 

We had a simple memorial. Nothing religious, as he was an avowed atheist. Grandpa Vlad was cremated, and his ashes were passed along to Mom and her sisters and brothers. 

The next day, we went to his house. Memories came to me in short bursts as we packed up his belongings for donation or for each other. I was helping Uncle Oleg with the couch when Mom called out to me. ‘It’s okay. Go see what she wants,’ he said. 

Mom and Aunt Tatianna were at the bookshelf, stacking its contents into cardboard boxes. Mom saw me and handed over an old, dusty accordion folder. ‘Grandpa wanted you to have this.’

‘He did?’

‘Yeah. He was very insistent.’

I took the folder and opened it. His collection of medals glimmered in the house lights. It brought me back to the day when Grandpa Vlad and I shared spiked lemonades. I took out the medals, still attached to their black board. There was an antique leather envelope behind the medals, something I hadn’t noticed before on that hot May day. I pulled it out and opened it. It held a yellowed document with gilded embossed lettering and official seals. But it was printed in Russian. I showed the document to Mom. ‘Can you read this?’

She took it, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t read Russian since I was six. Tati, can you?’

Aunt Tatianna looked at the document. She grimaced. ‘No, no. I don’t think I can.’

I was putting the medals and the document away when I saw something at the bottom of the folder. It was the wristwatch. 

I brought the accordion folder with me to school. I wanted to learn a little bit more about Grandpa Vlad’s service. The medals were easy. One colorful medal was for the capture of Berlin. The orange-and-black striped one was for victory over Germany. An eight-pointed badge was for dedicated service in the armed forces. The document in the leather envelope was difficult to pinpoint. But I knew there was someone who could help. 

I brought the folder to Professor Stevens, head of my university’s Russian history department. Though I wasn’t a student of his, he was happy to help. I showed him the document. He studied it carefully. ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked. 

‘It was my grandfather’s.’

He ran the end of his pen over a few lines. ‘Ah, I see.’

‘What?’

‘Your grandfather was in the Third Shock Army during the Battle of Berlin, and he was in the worst of the fighting. See this?’ He pointed to a section labeled “380”.

‘Yeah.’

‘This says that he was in the Three Hundred Eightieth Rifle Division. Meaning, he was in the fight for the Reichstag.’

‘Oh, wow.’ I wasn’t sure what that meant. 

I read about the Battle of Berlin, learning about the horrifying atrocities, the titanic battles. Millions of dead, soldiers and civilians. I saw the photographs. The sheer violence was like a visitation from hell. But something caught my eye. It was a group photograph of Red Army soldiers in Berlin. Each of them had multiple wristwatches going up their forearms. I learned that it was customary for Red Army soldiers to take the watches off the German dead and condemned as prizes. It then came to me. 

I pulled out Grandpa Vlad’s watch. I decided to look up the word on its dial face. It was the German word for Giselle. The company that made the Giselle watch was one of the best in Germany. Their watches were rugged, accurate, and highly regarded by the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe during World War II. The Giselle watch was especially prized by the officers of the SS units that fought on the Eastern Front. 

A confluence of coincidences doesn’t tell much about a person’s history. But in a way, I learned a little more about my Grandpa Vlad. 

Dead Shot

           Joey and Daniel crept into Daniel’s parents’ bedroom. Daniel sat on his knees as he searched underneath the bed. He exclaimed excitedly and pulled out a heavy case, laying it on the bed. Snapping open the locks, he opened it. His father’s long rifle, gleaming stock and barrel, sat before them. The smell of sulfur and gun oil was pungent. 

‘This is so cool!’ Joey said. 

‘Yeah, my dad’s a dead shot with this thing,’ Daniel said proudly. 

‘Have you shot it?’

‘My dad showed me how. It’s easy.’

Daniel lifted the rifle from the grooves of its case and hefted it in his hands. It was heavy, but he showed no strain. 

‘Can I hold it?’ Joey asked. 

‘Sure.’ Daniel held the rifle to Joey, who took it. He grinned widely. Daniel looked into the case where he knew the bullets were stored. They weren’t there. 

‘Let’s take it outside!’ Joey shouted.

They went out into Daniel’s backyard. Joey was pointing the rifle at a tree, sighting it with the rifle’s scope. He made a gunshot sound and lowered it. From a neighboring house, the boys saw Mrs. Phgerner on her back porch. Joey had a particular hatred for this woman, for she was the one who told his father of his roughhousing last week, which earned him a beating with his father’s belt. 

Joey leveled the rifle against his shoulder, sighting her in the scope. He placed his finger on the trigger. Daniel noticed that the rifle’s safety was off. 

Mrs. Phgerner’s head was in the dead center of the scope when Joey pulled the trigger. 

Railly and Train Wreck Woo a Girl

            Railly Martinez and Train Wreck Del Mar boarded the bus heading to Pasadena, carrying their instruments. Railly had his old, beat-up Epiphone acoustic. Train Wreck lugged his snare drum and stand. The bus driver looked at them dubiously, preparing herself for mischief. But the two paid their fare, headed to the back of the bus, and settled in their seats peaceably. The driver shut the doors and drove towards Glendale. 

‘Where are we going again, man?’ Train Wreck asked lackadaisically. 

‘You forgot again?’ Railly was annoyed, especially after Train Wreck shrugged. ‘Man, I told you not to smoke, didn’t I?’

‘I needed to clear my head, man.’

‘But I need you to be clear-headed!’

‘Nah, man, don’t worry, I’ll be alright.’

Railly shot a worried look at him. ‘Will you, though? You get weird after smoking.’

‘I got it, I got it.’

‘Okay. If you say so.’

‘So, where are we going?’

‘Pasadena,’ Railly sighed. ‘Off of Colorado. It shouldn’t be far where we get off.’

‘Okay, cool.’ Train Wreck grinned stupidly. 

Railly lifted his guitar, tuning it to the best of his ability. Train Wreck pulled out his sticks and tapped a simple rhythm on his thigh. After some time, he asked Railly, ‘So, how do you know this girl, man?’

‘Oh, you remember that. I met her at a bus stop.’

‘You two took the bus?’

‘It’s what people do when they’re at a bus stop, Wreck.’

‘Sure, sure. So, what? You two struck up a conversation or something?’

‘Not really. I sat down next to her, and she was, like, talking to herself. Low, not loud. And I caught some parts of it. She was talking about me. And when I tried to get her to admit it, she denied it. But we became friends, talking shit and everything. I thought she was cool when she snatched a lady’s wallet from her purse on the bus and treated me to lunch after.’

‘Ah. What’s her name?’

‘Veronica. Veronica something. She likes being called Ronnie, though.’

‘Gotcha.’

The bus turned onto Colorado Boulevard and slowly made its way past Old Town Pasadena. Old brick storefronts morphed into modern buildings of concrete and steel. Railly pulled the lanyard, and the bus came to a hissing stop. He and Train Wreck hauled their instruments off and walked into the night. 

The neighborhood was dark and quiet, punctuated by the soft, yellow glow of a random streetlight. A bird sang in the distance. The rich, earthy scent of mature oak trees lining the street was everywhere. Railly led the way, guided by a map printed from MapQuest. ‘How do you know where she lives, man?’ Train Wreck asked, trying to take out his pipe and lighter discreetly from his pocket. 

‘From the registrar,’ Railly answered. 

‘Huh?’

‘The PCC registrar. I went there and got her address.’

‘But. They, like, can’t give that away, man. I think that’s illegal.’

‘Yeah, they told me that. I snuck in when no one was looking and found it myself.’

‘Dude. That’s fucked up.’

Railly didn’t answer. 

‘How’d you know it was her?’ Train Wreck continued. ‘I bet there are hundreds of Veronicas or some shit.’

‘Through her birthdate.’

‘How’d you get that?’

‘I asked her.’

‘Why?’

‘I said to her that I wanted to do something nice for her birthday. She gave it to me. Then, I looked her up.’

‘Shit, man. You must really like her.’

Railly stopped and turned to Train Wreck. ‘I don’t just like her, Wreck. She’s the epitome of beauty and grace. A brilliant mind who can discuss Dostoevsky’s fiction and the drawbacks of capitalism flawlessly. She’s everything, man.’

‘Cool, man.’

They reached an intersection deep in the neighborhood. Railly pointed to a dark, two-story house between two Craftsmans. ‘There it is, Wreck. That’s her house.’

‘Got it.’

Train Wreck set up his snare drum on the sidewalk in front of the house. Railly stood next to him and slung his guitar. He strummed melodic chords, each measure sweeter than the next, heading into arpeggios. Train Wreck followed along, nodding his head to the rhythm, before going into the beat. Railly sang mellifluously, with great longing. When the song ended, Railly and Train Wreck waited for a response from the house. Nothing. ‘Alright, Wreck,’ Railly said with determination. ‘Another one.’

They launched into another song. It was Beatlesque. Railly gave his best John Lennon impression. Again, there was no response. ‘Come on, Ronnie!’

They were midway through a third song when a window from the house to the left flew open. A rotund man with slovenly white hair leaned out. ‘What’s going on there?’ he demanded. 

‘Nothing!’ Railly replied. 

‘Doesn’t sound like nothing. It’s too late to make such a racket!’

‘He’s in love, man!’ Train Wreck said. 

From the other neighboring house, a window opened. A woman with curlers in her hair leaned out. ‘Is that you, George?’ she asked. 

‘Yeah, it’s me!’

‘What are you yelling for?’

‘These damn punk rockers are making so much god damn noise. I’m gonna call the cops!’

‘They’re not harming anyone. Besides, I’m enjoying their tunes!’

‘Of course, you are, you anarchist! Some of us need our sleep. We have work in the morning.’

‘You’re retired, George!’

Railly and Train Wreck stood in the middle of the neighbors’ bickering. Stoically, Railly strummed his guitar while Train Wreck tapped on the side of his snare drum. They took some pride in knowing that someone enjoyed their performance. 

‘What are you two boys doing here?’ the neighbor woman asked. 

‘I wanted to show my love to Veronica,’ Railly answered. 

‘Aw, that’s sweet!’ the neighbor woman said.

‘Is she around?’

‘I haven’t seen the family in a while. Maybe they’re away on vacation.’

‘Or, they’re committing her to an asylum again,’ George interrupted. 

‘George!’

‘What?’

‘That’s an ugly rumor, and you have no right to push it!’

As the neighbors bickered, Railly was crushed. Train Wreck noticed and threw his arm over his shoulders. ‘I think we should go, man.’

‘Yeah, I think you’re right, Wreck.’

They gathered their instruments and started their walk down the street towards Colorado Boulevard. The street lamps grew brighter as they approached. Railly and Train Wreck sat on the bus stop bench, waiting. 

‘Maybe you’ll see her again,’ Train Wreck said, pulling out his pipe and lighter, taking liberal tokes of his very skunky weed. 

‘Maybe,’ Railly answered despondently. Their bus approached and stopped beside them. ‘I can hope,’ he said as they boarded, heading into the night. 

The River Man

  When it was sweltering, as it always is in July, I often left my parents’ house for some fresh air. I’d take my bike and ride out of the neighborhood, down Glendale Boulevard, to Fletcher Drive. My destination was the river. The city began to open it up to walkers, joggers, and others. Its trail wasn’t maintained, though, with a lot of potholes, dips, and cracked concrete. 

The ride down the trail heading to Lincoln Heights was pleasant. It was cooler in the afternoon. And the river had a smell. Aquatic and vegetal, but never stagnant. In the center of the river, rock formations had built up over the years, allowing plants and trees to grow, transforming them into small islands. Cranes and egrets flew down to these islands. From the city’s run-off came the return of the old ecology. 

One early evening, I was on my normal ride, rolling down the river’s trail, approaching the environs of Frogtown, when I saw movement on one of the little islands in the middle of the river. It wasn’t birds, for the rustling of the thin trees and bamboo shoots was caused by something larger. I slowed down until I stopped and looked at the island. From the grass came a man, skinny, with a shiny bald head, wearing a dirty T-shirt and cut-off jeans. He was working on a plastic tarp when he noticed me, looking up. His smile was wide, revealing gaps where his teeth were missing. He waved at me, and I waved back. 

Little by little, the river man built a house on his island. He set up a frame and covered it with plastic tarps, cardboard, and plywood. Smoke billowed from a handmade stove. Whenever I rode past, he worked on his house or washed in the river. He would wave at me, and I reciprocated. His smile was always there. 

The summer ended, giving way to fall. Then, winter arrived, bringing with it the rains. At first, it was scattered sprinkles. Then, full showers. The rain became monstrous, coming down relentlessly. The river swelled until its waters crested over the banks, flooding Frogtown. 

People lost their homes after the winter rains. They weren’t salvageable, so they sold the land underneath them and moved out of the neighborhood. Developers came in and built luxury condos, pricing out those who remained. 

The river appears cleaner nowadays, with well-maintained trails and newly developed parks. I stopped riding down the river because too many new people were crowding the trails. The river man’s house was washed out, its debris still entangled in the river’s trees. I don’t know what happened to him.