by Jim Whitehouse
“Ringggggggg” sounds my roommate Otter’s alarm clock. We are sophomores in college. Otter sets his alarm clock for very early each morning.
I lift my head from my pillow and see him slap the snooze button on the clock. He falls back to dreamland.
Five minutes later, “Ringgggggg.” Again, the hand-smack on the button.
His clock is one of those old-fashioned wind-up models with two bells on top and a hyperactive clapper between them. It is loud enough to do battle with a bowling alley.
I finally give up and get out of bed while Otter slumbers on, slapping that snooze button every five minutes.
Hours later, over lunch, I broach the topic of the alarm clock.
“Why, Otter, do you bother to set that alarm when you never, ever wake up when it goes off, other than to smack the snooze button?” I ask.
“I need to get ready for my 8 a.m. classes,” he says. “If I didn’t read the assignments the night before, I have to get up early to catch up.”
“We’ve been rooming together for a month. You have not attended one 8 a.m. class. Nor have you read an assignment.”
“I’m going to turn over a new leaf tomorrow,” he says. “I’m getting up at 4:30 a.m. I promise.”
The next morning, the alarm shocks me awake at 4:30 a.m., and again every 5 minutes until I crawl out of bed. When I return from my own 8 a.m. class, I am just in time to hear the alarm sound again over Otter’s soft snoring.
I grab his foot and pull him out of bed onto the floor, where he sleeps on in rumpled pajamas. Alas.
Breakfast is served in the dining room, so I go ponder life over a pancake and coffee.
Otter wanders in and sits down.
“I fell out of bed,” he says, nibbling a slice of bacon from his breakfast tray. “Woke up on the floor. It’s a good thing, too, because now I’ll be on time for my 11 a.m. class.”
At 11:05 a.m., with Otter sitting in a classroom and a little time on my hands, I pull my modest toolbox out from the bottom of my closet and sit down at my desk. Otter’s alarm clock is there before me.
Carefully, oh so carefully, I remove 4 tiny screws. Using the same little screwdriver, I pry the back off of the clock.
I peer into the inner workings. Gears are spinning and the balance wheel is rocking back and forth around the coiled spring. I think about all I know about how such a clock functions. The list stops as quickly as Otter’s alarm when he pounds the snooze button. I know nothing about clocks.
I study the complex thing, tracing backward from the clanger between the bells, down the lever to another lever, along that lever to some other part the name of which I do not know. Or care to know.
What I do see is a single screw attaching lever to lever.
Gently inserting my screwdriver, I remove the screw. I carry the wee thing out into the hallway and toss it in the trash can.
Back in the room, the clock is reassembled with little difficulty. It ticks on.
The next morning, I sleep in until 6:30 a.m., study a bit and head to my 8 a.m. class. Otter misses his class as he dozes peacefully.
3-1/2 years later, we both graduate, but Otter is a bit farther down the class standings than all the students who actually attended 8 a.m. classes. His roommates from subsequent years bought me a pizza in thanks for disabling Otter’s alarm clock.
They noticed. He never did.
