It’s About Time
by Christopher Smith
For Thomas, time was an obsession.
As a child, Thomas spent hours with his family playing Perquackey marathons, a word game with lettered dice. But Thomas wasn’t interested in the words or outscoring his family—his attention was fixed on the game’s 3-minute hourglass. He would flip the red-tipped timer at the start of every turn, measuring its progress against the second hand of the kitchen clock above the sink. If the hourglass ran too fast or too slow, Thomas would demand a redo. Once, he even wrote to the game’s manufacturer in Minneapolis, Minnesota, urging them to engineer a more precise way of measuring their sands of time.
In his teens, Thomas took a part-time job at Murray Hill Watch and Clock, working under Mr. Hovak, a Czech émigré and master horologist. “Not a watchmaker, not a watch repairman—a horologist!” Mr. Hovak would emphasize. Mr. Horvak had trained at Bulova’s headquarters on Astoria Boulevard in Elmhurst, and the shop displayed a large black-and-white photo of Bulova’s top horologists-in-training. A younger, dark-haired Mr. Hovak appeared near the center of the picture, his smiling eyes framed by a head of thick black hair. When Thomas apprenticed under him, his mentor’s hair had turned a wavy silver. Still, the smile remained, and Thomas saw it each time Mr. Hovak reviewed his work and muttered, “Velmi pěkné,” which Thomas eventually learned meant, “Very nice.”
After high school, Thomas reluctantly left home to attend a small college in eastern Pennsylvania. His parents insisted he pursue a career beyond “just watch repair, ” so Thomas majored in physics and history, which revolved around time. He studied the nuances of time in quantum mechanics and traced its impact on cultures and societies.
Yet every summer, Thomas returned to Murray Hill Watch and Clock, where, after graduating—and much to his parent’s displeasure—he became a full-time employee. His skills advanced quickly as he progressed from repairing Bulovas to Rolexes and, finally, to the prestigious Patek Philippes.
As the years passed, Mr. Hovak progressed from bifocals to trifocals, sometimes wearing his prescription glasses over a pair of drugstore magnifying readers to peer through the eye loupe. He relied on his protégé not only for his sharp eyes but also for his deepening command of the art of timekeeping.
Eventually, Mr. Hovak limited himself to simpler tasks: changing watch bands, adding links and buffing out scratched crystals. Then came the day he quietly approached Thomas and announced his retirement. With that, he handed Thomas his fully stocked Bulova three-drawer horologist’s tool cabinet and the keys to the Murray Hill Watch and Clock.
At first, Thomas missed the old man’s presence. Mr. Horvak had been more than a mentor; he had shaped Thomas’s dream career, imparting his wisdom and challenging him to fix the finest timepieces money could buy. After a bit, as Thomas finished a repair, he took to whispering to himself, “Velmi pěkné.”
Murray Hill’s regular customers asked after Mr. Hovak. “He’s living in Queens, enjoying retirement. He comes in every Friday—just to watch.”
Indeed, Mr. Hovak never tired of watching Thomas work. “You are a master. You should take down that picture of me at Bulova,” he’d say from time to time.
“No one would recognize the place without it,” Thomas argued. “Plus, I’d have to repaint the wall. And who’s got time for that?”
In truth, Thomas loved the photo of Mr. Hovak. It made him feel like the old man was always looking over his shoulder, watching his successor.
One Friday afternoon, as the sun shone through the shop’s front window, stretching the shadow of the hand-painted gold-lettered “Murray Hill” across the Bulova trainees, Mr. Hovak asked, “Did the man from Times Square come by?”
He hadn’t. “What does he want?” Thomas asked.
Mr. Hovak smiled but didn’t answer.
An hour or so later, as Thomas started his closing routine, the bell on the front door jingled. A man entered, tipped his hat to Mr. Novak and turned to ask, “I hope I’m not too late. Are you Thomas?”
Thomas nodded slowly.
“I’m with the Times Square Alliance.” The man said Thomas had been nominated to become the official New Year’s Eve timekeeper.
“Who would nominate me?” Thomas asked, glancing at Mr. Hovak.
The man smiled. Mr. Hovak smiled. Neither answered.
“The alliance is connected to the Global Positioning System signal from the atomic clock in Colorado,” the man said. “That’s the main clock the government uses to synchronize all of its electronic devices—planes, missiles, satellites, you name it. We use it for the one-minute countdown to midnight.”
“So, what do you need me for?” Thomas asked.
“Someone’s got to press the button,” the man replied, smiling as he left the store.
Mr. Novak smiled, staring out the front window.
When the last Friday of December came, the day before New Year’s Eve, Mr. Hovak didn’t come by the shop. The old man didn’t have a phone. He didn’t need one. But he had left his landlady’s number on the back of a business card in the cash register. Thomas pieced together the story through the landlady’s thick accent: an ambulance had come for Mr. Hovak in the middle of the night. She repeated something in Czech; though Thomas had never heard the words before, he knew what they meant.
The next day, Thomas arrived at Times Square. The man who’d come to the shop ushered him into the broadcast truck, where one wall was covered with small TV monitors, each with another live snapshot of New Year’s revelry. Thomas was seated on a folding chair before a digital monitor flashing the numbers of the atomic clock.
Midnight approached, and as the numbers indicated the one-minute mark, Thomas’s finger hovered over the red button. Then, with a deliberate button push, Thomas began the countdown, and the ball started its descent.
60, 59, 58… Thomas thought of how time stood still for the young, dark-haired horologist in the photo on the shop wall across town.
35, 34, 33… Then, he realized that for one fleeting minute, he controlled time for about 20 million people.
10, 9, 8… He could hear the pulsing crowd outside as they joined in on the countdown.
3, 2, 1… And as the ball touched down, it flashed like a prism of a million colors as 2025 shone magnificently over Times Square.
Thomas smiled and whispered to himself, “Velmi pěkné.”
It’s About Time
by Christopher Smith
For Thomas, time was an obsession.
As a child, Thomas spent hours with his family playing Perquackey marathons, a word game with lettered dice. But Thomas wasn’t interested in the words or outscoring his family—his attention was fixed on the game’s 3-minute hourglass. He would flip the red-tipped timer at the start of every turn, measuring its progress against the second hand of the kitchen clock above the sink. If the hourglass ran too fast or too slow, Thomas would demand a redo. Once, he even wrote to the game’s manufacturer in Minneapolis, Minnesota, urging them to engineer a more precise way of measuring their sands of time.
In his teens, Thomas took a part-time job at Murray Hill Watch and Clock, working under Mr. Hovak, a Czech émigré and master horologist. “Not a watchmaker, not a watch repairman—a horologist!” Mr. Hovak would emphasize. Mr. Horvak had trained at Bulova’s headquarters on Astoria Boulevard in Elmhurst, and the shop displayed a large black-and-white photo of Bulova’s top horologists-in-training. A younger, dark-haired Mr. Hovak appeared near the center of the picture, his smiling eyes framed by a head of thick black hair. When Thomas apprenticed under him, his mentor’s hair had turned a wavy silver. Still, the smile remained, and Thomas saw it each time Mr. Hovak reviewed his work and muttered, “Velmi pěkné,” which Thomas eventually learned meant, “Very nice.”
After high school, Thomas reluctantly left home to attend a small college in eastern Pennsylvania. His parents insisted he pursue a career beyond “just watch repair, ” so Thomas majored in physics and history, which revolved around time. He studied the nuances of time in quantum mechanics and traced its impact on cultures and societies.
Yet every summer, Thomas returned to Murray Hill Watch and Clock, where, after graduating—and much to his parent’s displeasure—he became a full-time employee. His skills advanced quickly as he progressed from repairing Bulovas to Rolexes and, finally, to the prestigious Patek Philippes.
As the years passed, Mr. Hovak progressed from bifocals to trifocals, sometimes wearing his prescription glasses over a pair of drugstore magnifying readers to peer through the eye loupe. He relied on his protégé not only for his sharp eyes but also for his deepening command of the art of timekeeping.
Eventually, Mr. Hovak limited himself to simpler tasks: changing watch bands, adding links and buffing out scratched crystals. Then came the day he quietly approached Thomas and announced his retirement. With that, he handed Thomas his fully stocked Bulova three-drawer horologist’s tool cabinet and the keys to the Murray Hill Watch and Clock.
At first, Thomas missed the old man’s presence. Mr. Horvak had been more than a mentor; he had shaped Thomas’s dream career, imparting his wisdom and challenging him to fix the finest timepieces money could buy. After a bit, as Thomas finished a repair, he took to whispering to himself, “Velmi pěkné.”
Murray Hill’s regular customers asked after Mr. Hovak. “He’s living in Queens, enjoying retirement. He comes in every Friday—just to watch.”
Indeed, Mr. Hovak never tired of watching Thomas work. “You are a master. You should take down that picture of me at Bulova,” he’d say from time to time.
“No one would recognize the place without it,” Thomas argued. “Plus, I’d have to repaint the wall. And who’s got time for that?”
In truth, Thomas loved the photo of Mr. Hovak. It made him feel like the old man was always looking over his shoulder, watching his successor.
One Friday afternoon, as the sun shone through the shop’s front window, stretching the shadow of the hand-painted gold-lettered “Murray Hill” across the Bulova trainees, Mr. Hovak asked, “Did the man from Times Square come by?”
He hadn’t. “What does he want?” Thomas asked.
Mr. Hovak smiled but didn’t answer.
An hour or so later, as Thomas started his closing routine, the bell on the front door jingled. A man entered, tipped his hat to Mr. Novak and turned to ask, “I hope I’m not too late. Are you Thomas?”
Thomas nodded slowly.
“I’m with the Times Square Alliance.” The man said Thomas had been nominated to become the official New Year’s Eve timekeeper.
“Who would nominate me?” Thomas asked, glancing at Mr. Hovak.
The man smiled. Mr. Hovak smiled. Neither answered.
“The alliance is connected to the Global Positioning System signal from the atomic clock in Colorado,” the man said. “That’s the main clock the government uses to synchronize all of its electronic devices—planes, missiles, satellites, you name it. We use it for the one-minute countdown to midnight.”
“So, what do you need me for?” Thomas asked.
“Someone’s got to press the button,” the man replied, smiling as he left the store.
Mr. Novak smiled, staring out the front window.
When the last Friday of December came, the day before New Year’s Eve, Mr. Hovak didn’t come by the shop. The old man didn’t have a phone. He didn’t need one. But he had left his landlady’s number on the back of a business card in the cash register. Thomas pieced together the story through the landlady’s thick accent: an ambulance had come for Mr. Hovak in the middle of the night. She repeated something in Czech; though Thomas had never heard the words before, he knew what they meant.
The next day, Thomas arrived at Times Square. The man who’d come to the shop ushered him into the broadcast truck, where one wall was covered with small TV monitors, each with another live snapshot of New Year’s revelry. Thomas was seated on a folding chair before a digital monitor flashing the numbers of the atomic clock.
Midnight approached, and as the numbers indicated the one-minute mark, Thomas’s finger hovered over the red button. Then, with a deliberate button push, Thomas began the countdown, and the ball started its descent.
60, 59, 58… Thomas thought of how time stood still for the young, dark-haired horologist in the photo on the shop wall across town.
35, 34, 33… Then, he realized that for one fleeting minute, he controlled time for about 20 million people.
10, 9, 8… He could hear the pulsing crowd outside as they joined in on the countdown.
3, 2, 1… And as the ball touched down, it flashed like a prism of a million colors as 2025 shone magnificently over Times Square.
Thomas smiled and whispered to himself, “Velmi pěkné.”