The Watch Hoarder’s Purge

Chapter Five from The Watch Whisperer of Redondo Beach

“You look miserable,” the Watch Master said, peering into the void of his backyard as we sat beneath a star-punched sky.

“You can see me? It’s pitch black out here.”

“I don’t need to see you. I can feel the gravitational pull of your despair. You’re radiating existential dread.”

“That’s because you’ve assigned me an impossible task. Sell all my watches… and keep only one.”

“Baby steps, Cassandra.”

At that moment, a neighbor’s cat slinked in like a ghost, coiled around the Master’s ankle, and began purring like a smug little engine. He ignored it entirely.

“You need to begin The Purge.”

“The Purge? You mean like that movie where people commit murder once a year?”

“No, not that kind of purge. Though honestly, your collection could use a bloodletting. I’m talking about the soul-cleansing purge. A lifestyle exfoliation. You can’t amputate your horological addiction in one go. You’ve got to build momentum. Start with the dead weight in your life.”

He took a slow sip from a chipped mug of lukewarm coffee and gently nudged the cat away with the practiced detachment of a man who has done this a hundred times.

“Begin,” he said, “with your eWaste.”

“My what?”

“You heard me. Don’t pretend you’re not hoarding defunct electronics like some midlife tech raccoon. Old flat-screens, fossilized laptops, bargain-bin Bluetooth speakers, cracked tablets, prehistoric printers, derelict keyboards—stuff that died during the Bush administration.”

“I have… some things,” I admitted, blood draining from my face.

“Take it all to an eWaste center. Feel the rush. The purity. Like dominoes tipping, you’ll get hooked on getting rid of things. And before long, those watches will start looking like ankle weights chained to your past.”

A wave of dizziness came over me.

The Master raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“Everything you’re saying is true. And I think I’m going to faint.”

He shrugged with the lazy grace of a man who’d long since graduated from giving a damn. “Change or don’t. Nobody’s twisting your arm. But if you’re still clutching that broken Casio from 2009 like it’s a family heirloom, maybe it’s time to rethink your priorities.”

He stretched his limbs and let out an operatic yawn. Just then, a massive crow descended on the fence post, tilted its head like a Greek oracle, and let out a guttural, gravelly call: “Puuurge. Puuurge. Puuurge.”

The Master didn’t flinch. He simply glanced at the bird and muttered, “Everyone wants a line in this story.”

And with that, he dismissed me into the night—to wrestle with my demons and the unbearable burden of excess.