November 28, 2007--The Timekeeper--Concluded

For years I’ve noticed him. In all weather. Always wearing his blue checked short-sleeve shirt. It gets bitterly cold at the eastern edge of Washington Square Park, but still I’ve never seen him with a jacket, much less a coat or a hat. Or wearing gloves.

He is easy to ignore. Just another of the big city’s lost souls. Because lost, he seems--muttering to himself as he paces with apparent purpose back and forth, back and forth--he seems sometimes to rise in what appears to be anger. I have some expertise about Tourette Syndrome, and since I first observed him thought he was a classic case. Like the others--unable to control his violent verbal eruptions; and though he, unlike them, is not easy to understand, I assumed that his angry outbursts included the cursing that is characteristic of so many Tourettes. Indeed, a textbook case of physical and verbal tics.

Although I know that there is nothing inherently to fear from Tourettes, as I said they are all-too familiar to me, I always cut them and him a wide swath. One never truly knows.

That is until last Wednesday.

I had heard that he is well-known to the NYU community. In fact, there was a recent article about him in the student newspaper, The Washington Square News. No one attempted to interview him, the reporter had been respectful of his affliction, but he did learn that the little man—and he is indeed quite small, no more than five feet tall—is referred to as the Timekeeper by students who rush to and from class along Washington Square East. This because he appears to check his oversized watch every thirty seconds or so. And each time, after doing that, he barks what seem like commands or admonitions to the students streaming along the park. Thus it was reported. Nothing more than that. There was nothing said about his condition or other aspects of his life. Such as it must be.

Forgive me. This is not quite true. I failed to mention, they did write how a number of the students interviewed for the article, like me, also noticed that he never wears a sweater when the wind is howling, and a few revealed that they had brought one for him last winter but he had rejected it with a dismissive and even frightening grunt.

Last Wednesday was especially raw for mid-November. One of those late fall days when, after a spell of warmer-than-normal temperatures, the color of the sky suggests that if it were a mere few degrees colder it would yield some early winter snow. It was of course no surprise that the Timekeeper was there, perhaps pacing a bit faster to keep warm, as usual checking his watch in the familiar exaggerated gesture which has him deliberately lifting inch-by-inch his stumpy but muscular left arm and watch to within a foot of his mottled face. As if to flamboyantly show anyone who cared, or happened to notice, that he was on the job and would indeed still be at his post when things really began to blow and storm. We could count on that. Though what that counting-on might mean remained unclear.

But for some reason, unlike on so many other days when I simply took note of him, that morning I paused to watch him as he went through his involuntary rituals. More balletic than a series of, to me, familiar neurological tics. And thus worth cataloging.

First, and perhaps most curious for Tourettes, his pacing was confined to a tight pattern (most when out and about simply wandered, seemingly aimlessly)—an equal number of steps that traced all the points of the compass from due north then sharply west, south next, and finally east back to the very spot where he began to trace this militarily precise box. Over and over he repeated this drill, being certain to stop at each intersection to check the time and bark skyward his invectives before snapping off a sharp right-angle turn and stomping in another direction.

Also not appropriately dressed for the emerging season, huddling in the lee of Pless Hall across the street from where he paced his rounds, last Wednesday I stopped to observe.

By the third time that he turned east toward where I lurked I had become so, what else to call it, interested in watching him, wondering why the misfiring of his synapses had produced such a unique-to-my-experience syndrome, that I found myself being drawn toward him as if compelled for some reason to move closer. The better to take account of him? I am not certain; but whatever the case, I found myself, seemingly against my will, stepping out from the shelter the building provided, crossing the sidewalk, and when I reached the curb stumbling; and in so doing wound up thrust into the middle of the busy street. Where I rigidly stood as if frozen in place.

Before reaching the spot from where he would swing north again, no more then than three or four yards from where I bewildered stood, he fixed me with a ferocious look, crouched even lower to the ground than his short legs unbent allowed, and with his left arm extended—feeling to me as if it were long enough, though I knew this to be a physical impossibility, to press against my chest—growled words I could distinctly and unexpectedly understand: “Watch the traffic,” while at the same time waving with his right hand at the taxi cab, to slow it, which was careening, I then noticed, up the street toward where I remained transfixed.

He had surely saved me from serious injury or worse, and I nodded my appreciation in his direction as I jumped back out of the street and onto the safety of the sidewalk. Appreciation he did not stop to acknowledge as he resumed his rounds. North again, then west, next south, and finally back in my direction, east. From my side I waved toward him again but he did not seem to notice as he peered at his watch before turning once more to his left.

The sidewalks on both sides of Washington Square East were by then swarming with students racing between classes. I slipped back into the shelter of Pless Hall to catch my breath and to resume my observing. The wind was still slicing in from across the park. West to east. And as the streets filled even more with scurrying students, it would soon be late for class, the Timekeeper, when he got to his own self-delineated south-east corner, the one closet to the street, came to a stop. He remained there twitching and, even more deliberately and ostentatiously than usual, raised his watch in an almost imperceptible sweep of his left arm and roared, again uncharacteristically but totally distinctly, “Two minutes to class. Two minutes.” And added, “Watch the traffic.”

And with that, as if his warning were insufficient, he stepped off the sidewalk and halted all the approaching cars and taxis. “One minute,” he said. And gently added, “Hurry now.”

I returned the next morning and sought the cover of the same doorway in which I had sought protection on Wednesday. This time to be obscured from view. The weather as is not unusual for this time of year had once again changed—a front had passed through during the night and the Timekeeper, who was back to his purposeful pacing, was likely feeling comfortable in the same thin shirt he had worn the previous day. The streets were relatively empty, classes were in session—I had checked the schedule to be certain of that--and so I had clear sight lines along which to resume my observations. This time I was sure to bring a pad along with me in case there was something out of what I now saw to be an ordinary set of routines. These rigid routines being something somewhat unusual for Tourettes, but far from unknown since there were many variations recorded in the literature.

I watched and made note of four complete tracings through the compass points and the accompanying pauses at each turning to check the watch and bark some incoherent imprecation. Each traverse to my eye appeared to be identical to the last. I could perceive no variations. Perhaps if I were closer I would have observed some but I did not want to repeat the fiasco of the day before.

Since it was clear that there was nothing more for me to learn, my curiosity had been slaked—it was, though, an unusual case: all the obsessing with time and traffic was perhaps unique, and thus the hour or so in total I had spent on this had not been wasted—I put my pad away and turned to head back to my apartment. I had much work to catch up with and in many ways was not unhappy to be able to break away and walk north toward 9th Street.

But before I had managed to reach even the first intersection—Waverly Place and Washington Square East—I saw a woman of middle years dash diagonally south-west into the park where she quickly intercepted the Timekeeper just as he reached the northeastern corner of his tiny territory. Since this event I had not observed before I decided that my work back at home could wait. This encounter--because that is what it undoubtedly would turn out to be--might prove worth watching and even analyzing since Tourettes react in so many different ways when interrupted during one of their extended tics.

Remarkably, when she reached him she put an arm around his shoulder—she towered over him even though she was of normal height for a woman—and he followed her to one of the nearby benches. I reached for my pad and crossed the street in order to be closer to them.

They appeared to be having an intense conversation with their heads nearly touching. Both simultaneously and extravagantly gesturing. I inched nearer, but because of my impaired hearing was unable to make out anything that was being shared between them. She had brought him coffee or tea in a paper cup (I could see steam escaping and thus knew it was a hot beverage). Clearly they knew each other well.

After about three minutes, since I could not record what they were saying and because I was concerned that my skulking nearby would be detected by them, which I did not want to happen since perhaps I would choose to continue my observations at another time—I wanted to preserve my anonymity and objectivity—I retraced my steps back across the street and moved at a normal and hopefully inconspicuous pace north up University Place. Though to be sure I did not draw too much attention to myself—I was concerned that my visible excitement at this unexpected turn of events would give me away—Tourettes are uncommonly observant of anything unfamiliar or out of the ordinary—so as to eliminate the risk of being discovered by either of them I ducked into the deli just across Waverly Place for a cup of coffee for myself. Not that I wanted one—what I sought was a place to slip out of sight for a few minutes.

The shop for some reason is called the Space Market and though at the street side is narrow, it is quite deep, perhaps 150 feet or so back into the bowels of the building in which it is situated. An ideal place then to find cover. So I filled a cup and retreated to the back, well back behind the massive salad bar. There is no place to sit; but in the sanctuary of the market, among the shelves of dry cereal, I stood sipping coffee and thinking about what I had been observing during the past two days. There was much to consider, especially the Timekeeper’s relationship to the woman. Clearly there was one—it in fact felt profound considering how instantaneously they had picked up their conversation. And how obviously intense it was. There were no preliminaries—they seemed to launch immediately into a dialogue that had been going on for quite some time.

In spite of my best efforts, when you put all the pieces together—the Tourette tics, the unwavering patterns that the Timekeeper traced in the park, the unrelenting involvement with time and traffic (of which I was a thankful beneficiary), the daily involvement with students and their schedule of classes, and above all whatever was going on between him and the woman—I could not make sense of it all. I would have to do some more thinking and reading. Or maybe I would decide to just let it go—to chalk it up as another unfathomable story from the annals of the big city. There were God knows many of those. I had a lot to do without getting involved any further with this. Yes, that’s best, I thought, let it go. Move on. This was without doubt the right decision.

But while mulling this over and coming to this sensible conclusion, my cup was almost empty, and who cared any more if the Timekeeper or the woman noticed me, it was long past time for me to forget all this and get back to my real work, with a newly purposeful stride, as I approached the cash register at the front of the deli there she was, the woman who had just been with the Timekeeper.

I tried to slip by her but there was such a crowd pressing in through the narrow entrance—classes were changing again and students were streaming in to get snacks before the next ones began—that I could not do so. There was not enough room. In fact, to get back out to the street I needed to ask her to move aside to allow me to squeeze through. For a moment I hesitated to tap her on the back but, considering that I no longer cared if she somehow recognized me, I did not restrain myself from asking if she could let me by.

As she began to attempt to create a passageway for me, she turned to tell me that she was doing her best and that I should be patient. But in mid sentence I could see a flicker of recognition pass across her face. Still this did not concern me. It was over. My involvement, such as it was, with her and him. To her, though, it clearly wasn’t since she moved to block my way, forcefully took hold of my arm, and led my toward the back of the store where I had just been hiding.

I did not resist. By her doing this I was instantly reengaged in the story—at least her part of it. This too I did not resist. What, after all was likely to happen to me back among the boxes of pasta Raman noodles? I was tall and fit and she was, truth be told, short of breath and dumpy. So why not go along with her to see what I might learn?

When we reached the remotest corner of the market she turned me to face her. She did this with considerable physical power and I thought for a moment that I had underestimated her. But it was quickly clear that this was not to be an angry confrontation. No, “How can you stalk that poor man as if he was one of your experiments [not that I did any]? Don’t you know he is afflicted? That his behavior is not under his control? And look how he saved you yesterday. I heard all about that. Leave him be, will you. Etc.”

Rather she said, as I was readying my response, which would have been: “I do know about his condition. I do not, as you, consider it an ‘affliction.’ I know about individuals with Tourette Syndrome. In fact I am very sympathetic to their circumstances. And yes, he did keep me from harm yesterday. I very much appreciate that. Etc.”

Instead she said, “He is not a Tourette as I suspect you have been thinking.” How did she know that I wondered? “In fact he has no afflictions and conditions that I know of.” Again, it was as if she had been reading my mind. “It is true that he has some Dwarfism, you may have noticed that, but that in no way limits his mental capacities, though many think that those with that condition are in some way retarded, which they are not.” I knew that. It was hardly necessary to tell me that. “You, though, may have been wondering about what could easily be interpreted as unusual behavior.” Yes, I had been. “What he does every morning in the park.”

“To tell you the truth, I had been wondering about that. Sympathetically I hope. Indeed, if he had had Tourette Syndrome that too I feel I would have observed with understanding. You see . . .”

She cut me off, “I don’t have all day to talk with you. I’m busy too. But since you seem so interested in him I should tell you a little about his life. About what befell him. Perhaps then you will leave him alone.” I moved to say something about that but she waved me off. “I know, I know, you are a very sympathetic person. You just told me that. I am happy for you.” I nodded as if to say that I deserved her sarcasm.

“About five years ago,” she continued, “he lost his son. His son, who was his whole life, was a college student upstate; and in his second year there was killed by a car.” I grabbed hold of the wire shelves to keep myself from reeling. It was clear where this was going. “Not while driving. But while racing from his dormitory to his 9:00 biology class. He was a premed. He was run down by a hit-and-run driver who was never caught.” She was staring at me.

“After that life for William, that’s his name, was never the same. His wife died of grief less than two years later. The boy who was killed was their only child. So there you see William every day.” She pointed back toward the park.