—

The clock repair shop was small and cluttered, the kind of place that smelled of old wood and machine oil and dust that had settled decades ago. Clocks lined the walls—grandfather clocks, cuckoo clocks, mantel clocks, alarm clocks—their faces frozen at different hours, their pendulums still. The shop was a monument to time, and yet time inside it seemed to have stopped entirely.

Harvey Korman entered with a clock under his arm and impatience written across his face. He was a man on a schedule. He had a meeting. He had a train to catch. He had a life to live. He needed his clock repaired, and he needed it done quickly.

What he got was Tim Conway.

Conway stood behind the counter, dressed in a rumpled cardigan and a pair of thick glasses that magnified his eyes into wide, innocent circles. He was the Oldest Man—a character he had perfected over years of *Carol Burnett Show* sketches. The Oldest Man was not simply old. He was ancient. He moved as if every step required a committee meeting of his joints. He spoke as if every word had to be retrieved from a distant shelf. He approached every task as if he had never encountered it before.

Harvey placed the clock on the counter. “I need this repaired,” he said. “Quickly.”

Conway looked at the clock. He looked at Harvey. He looked at the clock again.

“It’s a clock,” he said.

“Yes,” Harvey said. “It’s a clock. It doesn’t work.”

Conway nodded slowly. He picked up the clock. He turned it over. He turned it back. He held it to his ear. He shook it gently.

“You’re supposed to repair it,” Harvey said.

Conway set the clock down. He reached for a receipt book. He opened it. He picked up a pen. He looked at the pen. He looked at the receipt book. He looked at Harvey.

“Name?” he asked.

“Korman. Harvey Korman.”

Conway wrote it down. Very slowly. Each letter was formed with the care of a man carving stone.

Harvey shifted his weight. He looked at his watch. He looked at the door. He looked back at Conway, who was now examining the pen as if it had suddenly become interesting.

“Is something wrong with the pen?” Harvey asked.

“No,” Conway said. “It’s a nice pen.”

He finished writing. He tore the receipt from the book. He handed it to Harvey. Harvey took it. He looked at it. It was blank.

“This is blank,” he said.

Conway took it back. He looked at it. He nodded. He wrote something on it. He handed it back. It said: *Clock.*

“That’s it?” Harvey asked.

“That’s it,” Conway said.

Harvey stared at him. He opened his mouth. He closed it again. He was not sure what to say. The audience was already laughing. They knew what was coming. They had seen the Oldest Man before. They knew that Harvey’s impatience was about to meet an immovable object.

—

**The Dusting**

Conway turned away from the counter. He picked up a feather duster. He began to dust the counter. Slowly. Methodically. As if the counter were the most important object in the world.

Harvey watched him. “What are you doing?”

“Dusting,” Conway said.

“I didn’t ask you to dust. I asked you to repair my clock.”

“Dusting is important,” Conway said. “A clean shop is a happy shop.”

He dusted the counter. He dusted the cash register. He dusted the clock. He dusted Harvey’s arm.

Harvey pulled his arm back. “Do you mind?”

“You had dust on you,” Conway said.

“I don’t have dust on me.”

“You did.”

Harvey sighed. He looked at the audience. The audience laughed. They were on his side, but they were also on Conway’s side. That was the magic of the sketch. Both men were right. Both men were wrong. And the collision between them was pure comedy.

—

**The Counter Gate**

Conway needed to get to the other side of the counter. There was a small gate—a hinged wooden barrier that could be lifted and swung open. It was the kind of gate that any normal person could operate in a single second.

Conway approached it as if it were a riddle.

He lifted the latch. He pushed the gate. It didn’t move. He pushed harder. It still didn’t move. He looked at the gate. He looked at Harvey. He looked back at the gate.

“Is it stuck?” Harvey asked.

“No,” Conway said. “It’s just particular.”

He tried again. He lifted the latch higher. He pushed the gate. It swung open an inch. He pushed again. It swung open another inch. He pushed again. It swung open all the way.

Harvey watched the entire process. His face was a study in suppressed frustration. His jaw was tight. His eyes were wide. His hands were clenched at his sides.

Conway stepped through the gate. He turned back to close it. He pushed it. It swung shut. He latched it. He pushed it again to make sure it was latched. He pushed it a third time. He nodded, satisfied.

Harvey looked at the audience. The audience roared. Harvey’s expression was one of a man who had just watched someone take five minutes to do something that should have taken five seconds.

—

**The Owl Clock**

Conway led Harvey to a shelf lined with clocks. He picked one up—a small, wooden clock with an owl carved into the top.

“This is a nice one,” Conway said.

“I don’t care about that one,” Harvey said. “I care about mine.”

“This one tells the time,” Conway said. “Watch.”

He held the clock up. He pointed to the owl. He pressed a small button. The owl’s eyes opened. Its beak opened. A tiny sound came out—not a hoot, but a strange, mechanical wheeze.

Harvey stared at it. “What is that?”

“It’s the owl,” Conway said.

“It doesn’t sound like an owl.”

“It’s an old owl.”

Conway pressed the button again. The owl wheezed again. Harvey closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He opened his eyes. He looked at the audience. The audience was in tears.

—

**The Grandfather Clock**

Conway led Harvey to the back of the shop, where a massive grandfather clock stood against the wall. It was taller than both of them, its wood dark and polished, its pendulum still.

“This one is my favorite,” Conway said.

“I don’t care about your favorite,” Harvey said. “I care about my clock.”

“This one has a secret,” Conway said.

He opened the glass door. He stepped inside. He closed the door behind him. He disappeared into the dark interior of the clock.

Harvey stared at the clock. He looked at the audience. He looked at the clock again.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Conway’s voice came from inside the clock. “I’m checking the pendulum.”

“Get out of there.”

“It’s very dusty in here.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should care. Dust is bad for clocks.”

Harvey walked to the clock. He peered inside. He could see Conway’s silhouette, bent over, examining the pendulum with the intensity of a surgeon.

“Please come out,” Harvey said.

“In a minute.”

“Now.”

“You’re very impatient.”

“I’m very busy.”

Conway emerged from the clock. He was covered in dust. He was holding a small piece of wood. He held it up for Harvey to see.

“This was stuck in the pendulum,” he said. “That’s why it wasn’t working.”

Harvey stared at him. “That’s not my clock.”

“I know,” Conway said. “But it’s a nice piece of wood.”

Harvey turned to the audience. His face was red. His eyes were wild. He looked like a man who had reached the end of his rope and was considering tying a knot and hanging himself with it.

The audience laughed harder.

—

**The End**

Harvey finally got his clock back. It was not repaired. Conway had not even opened it. He had simply handed it back to Harvey and said, “There you go.”

“It’s not fixed,” Harvey said.

“It will be,” Conway said.

“When?”

“Eventually.”

Harvey stared at him. He stared at the clock. He stared at the audience. He turned and walked out of the shop.

Conway watched him go. He picked up his feather duster. He began to dust the counter again.

The audience applauded. The curtain fell.

—

**The Lesson**

The genius of the sketch was not the clock. It was the timing.

Tim Conway understood something that few comedians ever master. He understood that anticipation can be funnier than the punchline. He understood that a pause can be a joke. He understood that the slowest man in the room can be the funniest man in the room.

Harvey Korman understood something too. He understood that the hardest job in comedy is not making the audience laugh. It is keeping a straight face while someone else makes them laugh.

Together, they created something unforgettable.

One repair. One customer losing patience. One comedian refusing to hurry.

And a clock shop where the funniest thing being repaired was the audience’s entire idea of timing.

—

**The End**