My friend's old Casio G-Shock was set on military time. He looked and it spoke to him.
"00:00" Casio warned him perfunctorily. It was a new day. Casio was my friend's most prized possession. It was a gift from his wife. He said it was the most expensive thing he owned. I doubted it. But he always insisted so.
He told me he was cutting the branches of trees just a few hours earlier. 14 unforgiving hours under the torrid sun in the morning and under stoic dark clouds and rain showers in the afternoon until evening.
My friend always felt bad for nimbus clouds. He called them stoic. He knew neither nimbus nor stoic before we met. I taught him those words. We both liked philosophy and nature. Or perhaps he feigned his interest. But he always believed what I said and I found it comforting. Reassuring.
He wondered why these clouds were always dreaded. Abhorred. Misunderstood.
He said they didn't speak and they didn't look funny. I still wonder why he thought speaking and looking a certain way would warrant dread or hate. Well, I knew an answer, the typical answer. I surmise you know it too.
But I wanted to know my friend's experience. His conclusions were always drawn from experience. He never liked reading so experience was his only teacher. And to some degree, perhaps I was also his teacher. I'd like to think so.
"They wash dirty roads, dirty bridges, water our trees and plants and grass, all of these for free," my friend said argumentatively as he defended the clouds.
"Why are they bad luck?" he calmly continued his impromptu speech. His accent was thick. Jesus Christ was it thick. I did not know how but it actually sounded thicker as the years passed.
I've told him many times to watch English sitcoms. Or watch the news delivered in English. I was always concerned about how he would come across because of his accent. I wanted to protect him. But he never did watch. He said he didn't have the time. Perhaps he just wanted people to know where he was from. Perhaps. I'd like to think so.
"I always liked rain" I said quickly and optimistically. My friend's arguments were misplaced. He was referring to the clouds but he meant rain. Clouds don't wash roads.
"I watched a movie before that said god is in the rain" I continued in a calm voice. I didn't want to correct him directly. Nothing will come of it. I knew what he meant anyway.
He didn't respond and we kept staring ahead. We were sitting on a public bench with a view of the city. Our city. The night sky always served as the perfect backdrop to this amazing view. We both found it breathtaking. Inspiring. Consistently refreshing. It's like seeing the soul of pure bliss.
One time, he said it was like seeing the "smile of god". Whatever that meant.
My friend was happy. He was always happy. He had two beautiful kids at home and a loving wife. And of course, Casio.
His daily wage here was worth two months of backbreaking labor back home. Even with 14-hour days, he said his work was manageable. Honestly, I've always felt he was tempted to say easy. But he didn't want the cosmic spirits to believe he still had room for difficulty.
He was one of those I guess. People who believe that there is a constant and universal rebalancing of hardship and happiness. Filling and emptying human lives in perpetual motion. Some call it karma. I guess I'm one of those too. But perhaps just recently. Perhaps.
That night, we drank apple juice. We both liked it because we both believed it could clear gallstones. I didn't have any. Just precautionary I guess. I knew it wasn't science-backed. But that's the premise of belief. Belief is not meant to be factual. It is simply belief.
My friend often talked about his plans for his kids. For his wife. He wanted all of them to see snow. All the grand skylines at night. He wanted them to board airplanes. He wanted them to develop dreams of their own. He wanted them to be happy, just as he was.
I always wondered why he wanted to see snow. He never experienced it. I can't recall if I talked to him about it. Perhaps I did. I do love snow. Perhaps I did.
"Why are you talking about clouds at midnight?" I said in a perplexed voice.
And then I woke up. It was the same recurring dream. I've had more than a lifetime of this same dream. I looked at Casio. It was "00:00". Ironic.
My friend's son is now at Stanford, studying computer science. Full ride. His daughter, on the other hand, is the recipient of Harvard's Presidential Scholarship. She's taking applied mathematics. They are both exceptionally brilliant. Probably the top 2 human beings in the world. Not 2%. Top 2. Well, in my opinion anyway.
My friend passed. But 46 hours before my friend died, he gave me two things: lottery numbers and his expensive Casio. He knew he wasn't going to make it and I knew why he always liked apple juice.
At the time, his kids were still in primary school. No one knew he was ailing. No one knew by design. He hid it well.
No one except for me. You might wonder how I knew it was 46 hours. I knew because he asked me to tell the time before he handed Casio over. There was a lottery draw that day. He wanted to know if I could still play his numbers. I could. And I did.
And I know the time that he was pronounced dead. I was there. Septic shock they told me. So yes, I did the math. It was 46 hours.
He said he was giving me everything he had and in exchange he asked me to take care of his kids and his wife. I said yes. Of course yes. Of course yes.
The lottery ticket was a bust. Like the universe played a joke. I didn't tell him. Probably for the best I thought. He passed not knowing the results. But he probably knew. I honestly believed that the powers that be would tip the scales in my favor. Or to his favor. Or to his kids' favor. It didn't.
"02:55" Casio warned me perfunctorily. It's still in military time. I like to tell time this way now. I'm flying out today. I'm going to Boston. Coincidentally, or probably cosmically, it actually takes 46 hours to drive from Harvard to Stanford. Google it. I'm visiting my friend's kids.
My friend's lottery ticket was a bust the day he died. And it was a bust for many days and many years thereafter.
But I kept playing his numbers. I never missed playing his numbers. Even when I broke my leg I went out of the hospital to play his numbers. I thought that draw was the one. It had to be. But this particular cosmic joke was excruciatingly long. And it didn't reward effort. Well, not at the time at least.
My friend did win eventually. Just recently. 1-4-6-9-12-14, add them up and the sum is 46. I bet you're tempted to play. But these numbers have used up their cosmic capital. But you can try.
I personally didn't want the ticket from my friend. Not because I had money. Trust me, I didn't. Or perhaps not enough. But I wanted my friend to know that I knew how to be a friend. I knew how to be his friend. And that I would live up to what he asked of me, regardless.
I never told him what I did for work. I guess I never felt the need to. He was that kind of person.
I'm an actuary. Well, I was. And every time I played the lottery I had complete understanding of my disappointing odds with any number. But these were my friend's numbers. These were his.
My friend never did ask me for favors. Just that single one before he passed.
I always wondered what my friend meant by the "smile of god".
Perhaps it's winning 460 million dollars. Perhaps my friend knew all along. Perhaps.
