Big Ben - Kaminski

What am I doing with my life? What’s the point? Why am I here?

Every day I stand here—I haven’t missed a day of work in my life—and I pose pretty for pictures with tourists and chime every quarter hour so the Londoners know if they’re running late. The thing is they already know if they’re running late. They all have those little metal phones will their little glowing clocks that they can bring up whenever they want. The natives hardly look at me anymore, and the tourists usually stick around for a photo or two, a chime at most. And yet I stand here every day, bonging at every quarter hour, on the hour. If I disappeared, they’d notice the giant gap in Westminster Palace. None of them would sit down and say, “Where’s Big Ben today? I sure miss him.”

It’s like I’m chiming out into the giant black abyss here.

I had never been like this before. I’d always loved my job and my town and my people. Now I’m questioning whether any of it is mine at all. What’s the point of a clock tower when everyone already knows the time?

That is the exact question I asked my friend the other day. You may have heard of her, Lady Liberty? I met her through Pisa. Anyway, we write from time to time, one national landmark to another, and I told her about my problems and she really put things into perspective for me.

Ben,

You sounded so wound up in your letter. I’m sorry you’re feeling so out of place. You may not believe this, but I completely understand how you feel. Before I was brought to the states, I felt like a massive sore on the pristine thumb of Paris. Ringing any bells? Exactly. It didn’t help that Eifell was there like a gleaming, wrought-iron beacon of perfection; stealing tourists with her delicate, twinkling lights. She let it get to her...

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...hat night than I had in a long time. My own chiming didn’t even wake me up. Sleep with filled with dreams about my future; my adoring fans, everyone cheering after my very first chime, and the way they’d look at me every day for the time. I was at peace.

So when morning came I looked out upon the Londoners with pity, for they had no idea what they were going to miss. Right before ten o’clock, I decided to ring my bells for them one last time—a parting gift.

But nothing happened.

I wiggled and twisted and wound every way I knew how, but no sound came. Panicked, I checked around me for a potential explanation. That’s when I found the letter; a photo actually, of the queen smiling broadly with just a touch of wickedness. In fact, I was so distracted by her sinister gaze that I didn’t notice the most important part: my bells were grasp firmly in her hands.

Bullocks.