A Decisive Tap on Brass

I walked down to the neighborhood tram turnaround right after lunch because sighting plumb lines indoors all morning made my boots eager for open street noise. Right on the weathered slatted bench by the rail loop, someone had forgotten an old brass-cased pocket compass, its magnetic needle jammed diagonally against the beveled glass casing. Now, delicate pivot jewels will bind up the second grit or a dropped nudge knocks the gimbal off true—folks usually shake them like medicine bottles thinking the spring is wrecked—so instead of fussing around, my immediate instinct told me to plant my boots against the oak slats, catch the knurled rim between both palms, and rap the brass rim briskly against the bench edge. With a crisp ping, the needle floated free, settling into a clean North.