The residents of the New York Washington Apartment thought Mr. Ebinson was strange. Not only had he given up his career six months ago, but he also had his absences. Ebinson would go missing from the first Tuesday every month until the next Wednesday. No one knew what had led to his secretive life. This is an account of what happened.

Mr. Ebinson liked the clock above the living room futon on the yellow, east wall of his apartment, twenty four stories high. He liked the precise jolt of the second hand as it ticked methodically telling the time to the second. 

His income as a painter wasn’t small but he was not rich. The living room he’d spent the last twelve years in was furnished with his paintings, a table, a carpet —which was green except where he had spilled a violet on it— the red futon and armchair suite, and his clock.

Mr. Ebinson was a tall man with blond, short hair, his green eyes took in everything. He was a man of little words but acute intelligence. Ebinson’s apartment was constantly littered with all the tools of his trade.He painted everything from flowers to the semi trucks he observed from his window overlooking the New York streets and buildings; he painted everything, that is, except for his living room clock. This surprised him one winter morning while eating his Tuesday breakfast, that he had never taken the time to paint the object he liked so much. He decided to dedicate the day to painting the large, black clock, and after he informed a few customers he set about to do just that. 

Mr. Ebinson was a painter until that cold Tuesday morning when he mysteriously disappeared. All the apartment cleaners found when they entered the next day was a clean room, except for the large stain of black paint on the carpet and a painting of the living room clock, almost finished, setting on the table.The futon was gone. The clock was still there, ticking like nothing was wrong. 

This is what happened on that gray Tuesday in January. The clock ticked, it’s hands orbiting the white dot in the center. Ebinson was almost done. The hands read half past one P.M. when it happened. Ebinson looked at the clock. It’s round face stared down at him. He was done with everything but the top left side. He was painting the fifty-first second dot when he noticed that it was raised slightly more than the others and that a tiny out-jut of metal protruded from the side, barely visible because it was so small. Ebinson got up to examine this unusual dot. As he walked from the side of the futon, he tripped on the black bottle of paint. It spilled across the green carpet. Mr. Ebinson fell onto the futon, struggling to regain his balance. The clock kept on ticking. He got up, righted the paint bottle, and looked intently at the living room clock on the yellow, east wall of his apartment. He extended a hand towards the fifty-first second dot and pressed. It was a button.