In the bustling metropolis of Toronto, perched like a wise old owl in a tree, lived Abe Katz, a sprightly 70-year-old with more stories than the average man could tell in a lifetime. It wasn’t his age that made him wise—it was the collection of experiences that unfolded along the way, each one a tick on the clock of life. Surprisingly, one of Abe's most peculiar and endearing passions developed not from his myriad of life experiences, but rather from an unexpected turn of fate, involving a deeply misunderstood auctioneer, an antique watch, and a fish named Larry.
It all started on a drizzly afternoon in March, the kind of day when the clouds decided to host a pity party for everyone below. Abe found himself at Morty's Bargain Basement, a haven of knick-knacks, half-used candles, and items that had long lost their purpose. Morty, the owner, was an eccentric man who believed everything had hidden value, including a rubber chicken that had been there since 1982.
Abe had stopped by to escape his wife, Miriam, who was in the midst of her "I’m going to organize the entire house" phase. He strolled past the shelves, casually inspecting the oddities until he spotted something glimmering under a pile of ceramic gnomes. Curious, he leaned in closer and realized it was an old pocket watch, crusty yet charming, seemingly trapped in a time warp that dated back to the 1940s.
Abe picked it up carefully, feeling the weight of history with his wrinkled fingers. An engraved inscription on the back read: “To Goldie, with all my love. From Ben.” Abe chuckled. “Ah, a romantic—and a bit of a sentimentalist.” He wondered if Ben ended up with Goldie or if he was just another male victim of a well-timed breakup.
Morty slithered over, his eyes twinkling. “Ah! I see you’ve found my prized heirloom!” He clapped his hands, making the gnomes tremble. “That watch has been in my family since the dawn of time—”
Abe interjected, “Or just since the last family reunion?”
Ignoring Abe's comment, Morty continued, “Let me tell you, it’s worth at least a couple hundred bucks.”
“Right!” Abe responded skeptically, “And my fish, Larry, is going to start speaking Yiddish any day now.” Larry was, of course, a goldfish that resided in a bowl at home, a companion who listened to Abe's soliloquies about life, love, and the mysteries of gefilte fish.
Abe, however, was intrigued. Not because he particularly cared about vintage watches, but rather because he had recently taken up chatting with Larry during dinner, and the idea of friendship—albeit with a fish—was starting to feel a little less fulfilling. The watch seemed like a worthy alternative to dawdling discussions about surface tension and fish flakes.
After a brief negotiation that only slightly resembled a hostage exchange, Abe left Morty’s with the watch cradled in a paper bag. "A true collector now," he thought to himself, snickering on the inside.
That evening, Abe placed the watch on his coffee table, next to the half-eaten bagel from breakfast, as he regaled Miriam with its tale. She looked up from her knitting, unimpressed. “What? A watch? Did you buy it to tell time or to start a new hobby?”
“Both!” Abe proclaimed. “I could start a collection. You never know when you might need a backup.”
“Because we live in the 21st century and haven’t ventured beyond the clock on our phones?” she retorted, her needles clicking sharply together.
Nevertheless, Abe shrugged off her banter. Little did he know he was about to stumble into a world he had never quite understood: the intertwined whims of timepieces and eccentric collectors.
As weeks rolled by, Abe became somewhat obsessed with finding more watches. His accidental fascination cascaded into a feverish search for tick-tocking treasures. The local flea markets became his hunting ground, and he sported a fedora that made him look like a high-brow detective, searching for time-traveling criminals.
He visited pawn shops and antique stores, seeking advice from fellow “watch enthusiasts.” In his newfound community of collectors, Abe quickly learned the lingo. Suddenly, words like “chronograph” and “tourbillon” rolled off his tongue like he had spent years mastering their nuances—not to mention the whispered debates on the merits of Swiss vs. Japanese movements.
At the monthly collectors' meetings, he found himself sharing stories heatedly, despite the fact that he had no clue about some of the terms being discussed. “I once owned a watch that could time a potato to bake in exactly 45 minutes!” he exclaimed one day, much to the confusion of his audience. “It was my grandmother’s! Even if it was broken!”
His fellow collectors looked at him bewildered, amused by the audacity but also glimmering with the understanding that vintage doesn’t always mean functional. Yet somehow, Abe’s odd tales at those meetings became iconic.
Of course, there were the inevitable eBay mishaps. What was supposed to be a “mint condition” WWII pilot’s watch turned out to arrive in what could only be described as “slightly used—if you consider living through a small tsunami a regular day.” But Abe didn’t care. More often than not, he meticulously polished the flaking surface, telling it the story of its life, giving Larry all the juicy details over dinner about each piece in his growing collection.
Despite all the joys, challenges, and constant ribbing from Miriam, Abe continued his journey—a quest for horological wisdom that he never expected would become such a large part of his life.
Finally, after months of collecting, Abe decided to host a small gathering to show off his collection. It was a grandiose blowout, with bagels and schmears, and a corner dedicated solely to his watch display. Each time he introduced a piece, he added an enchanting backstory, some absurd, some ridiculously exaggerated.
One particularly tense moment unfolded when he explained a scratched-up Omega by stating, “This belonged to a Canadian spy who successfully infiltrated a banana republic in Latin America!” His audience raised eyebrows as if he just cracked the recipe to the perfect kugel.
As the evening came to a close, and guests left, Miriam pulled Abe aside. With a wry smile, she said, “You know, I initially thought you were wasting time. But it turns out you're collecting it.”
Abe, amused, raised his wrist as if checking the nonexistent time. “Miriam, darling, who needs time when you have stories to tell and fish to amuse?” He winked, proud that in a digital world obsessed with smart devices, he had managed to hold onto a piece of history.
And so, Abe Katz's peculiar journey into watch collecting continued. He would ultimately lead a life measured not in minutes or hours, but in moments crafted beautifully over cup after cup of coffee, laughter from around the dining table, and, of course, his never-ending conversations with Larry the fish. Looking down at his watch, he concluded, “After all, the time is whatever we make of it!”
And he smiled, knowing each tick was another reason to enjoy the moments.