"Combination," a Short Short

That old bitch is probably laughing her ass off in hell right now.

She knew, she had to know that the only reason I took care of her decrepit old ass was that watch. She knew I wanted it, it's mine, grandpa promised it to me, and now I'll never get it.

She told me that she had it somewhere safe; somewhere I would find it when she died. She told me after her nightly cocktail of valium and Metamucil, so I thought she let it slip. Turns out she was just messing with me.

The safe was in the floor under the bed. We found it when we cleaned out her room. Three dials. Three numbers that stand between me and my inheritance.

I've tried everything, grandpa's birthday, their anniversary, the day he came back from the war. Hell, I even tried the old bitch's measurements. Nothing works.

The safe is encased in a four-foot square block of concrete. There is no tearing it open. The combination is the only way.

All I can think about is that goddamn watch. It was his prized possession. He managed to carry it all the way through the mountains of Korea and the coal mines of West Virginia. He said it saved his life.

The hands are frozen at 11:15 and 37 seconds, the instant one cold morning in 1952 that a loose rock caused him to stumble. A sniper's bullet pierced his ear and embedded itself in a tree. He fell on the watch, freezing it permanently at 11:15 and 37 seconds, the moment his life should have ended. He never fixed it because, he said, from that point on he was living on borrowed time.

He'd tell this story every time he showed it to me, which was pretty much every day.

"Hey," he'd ask me, "you know what time it is?"

I learned early on not to answer.

"Oh, look at that," he'd say, looking at his watch. "It's 11:15 and 37 seconds."

It's not her Social Security number. I've tried her driver's license number, her license plate, and all of my cousins' birthdays.

Let those greedy bastards fight over the money. I just want that watch. I've tried every possible arrangement of significant digits in her life.

"If you truly knew your grandfather," her note said, "the watch is yours."

I knew him. I knew him well. But still, the goddamn safe will not open.