Stopwatch

Stopwatch

Part One: Not so Fast

         The night was warm and moist, and a smooth rainsmell lingered on the air.  No one saw this.  Suburban silence, all distant cars and cricket calls, hushed through the sprawling neighborhoods of the town.  Breathing a tired sigh, the soft hum of tires and concrete wound out from the highway and through the community—whispering through white houses.  Warm and soft Virginia June blew gently under the door of 1111 Hanover Avenue, where Adam wrestled with his bed sheets.  Something was bothering him, and he knew exactly what it was.  He hadn’t slept all night.  He never slept after those phone calls.

         Adam finally stopped his thrashing, still uncomfortable, but less so than he had been, half-opened eyelids leaden in his exhaustion.  Like most of the city, he had to be at work in three hours.  Adam slid his feet to the cold, hardwood floor—I should buy carpeting—and lurched to the bathroom.  Standing in front of the sink, he looked at his sagging, pale face in the mirror.  Poisonous insomnia darkened below his eyes.  Tussled in all directions, his hair apparently judged the sheets the victor of the earlier wrestling match.  Adam smiled—well fought, linens; thou hast vanquished me.  Adam stopped smiling, and walked over to the toilet.  Basically the same treatment she gives me.  He opened the floodgates.  He smiled again—an imagistic metaphor packaged in vulgar pun wrapping paper.  Fat lot of good that knowledge does me, I’m still pissing all over the seat.  He didn’t flush.  Fuck flushing.  All this pisswater swirling around at top speed.  I’ll let it breathe.  Doesn’t smell any worse than the rest of the apartment.  Adam went back to his bed, inhaling the ammonia stench—aromatic.

         As he shut his eyes again, trying to trick himself into falling asleep, Adam thought of the first call, the first in ten years.  No.  It was a text message. Getting married will you come? Email me.  Efficiency incarnate, instant and cheap, they sure beat the hell out of traditional invitations.  The message sent him floating through the memory of their parting, bubbled in the powerless paralysis of an anesthetized voyeur.  He didn’t like to remember.  Still, he had gone to the wedding.  It was a quick ceremony, which was good.  Adam had never been very skilled at holding fake smiles for long.  Probably that’s why I’m not married, he said, and smiled.  Yawning, Adam felt sleep smokeslip, smooth, around his mind, and his thoughts disintegrated into welcome darkness.

         But now the sun seeped over the horizon, soaking the buildings with a raw color.  No one saw this.  The city changed during the day.  Morning stretched out through the early dawn, and the highways and tunnels flooded with travelers on their way to work.  Driveways pumped car after car onto the roads, and thousands of suited men and women barked and snarled into their Bluetooth headsets, the engines of their cars growling and yelping.  In the houses, children jumped out of bed, after much urging, and checked their schedule for the day.  School, soccer practice, homework, dance class, karate, scouts, music lessons, homework.  Pre-planned rhythms pounded in their minds as they prepared to rush through town.  Parents rushed through town.  The commute, the Starbucks drive-thru, the workday, the overtime, the book club, yet another TV dinner, the cell phone ringing all the while, the emails bouncing back and forth between them.  They needed to be at work now.

         Adam needed to be at work now.  Man, he was late.  Panic snatched his heart into his throat, where it thudded, pumping numbing adrenaline through his body.  This was the fifth time in the last two weeks, and this time something was bothering him.  Oh, why did she have to call last night?  Mr. Kronovier was going to kill him.  As he dressed, he thought of the last time he was late, thought of that red, ballooning face, livid and shaking, as it had gaped open its wide, white-toothed mouth and ripped through the air around it, screeching about company time.  Adam wasn’t smiling.  God dammit, that phone call!  Mr. Kronovier’s teeth would grate together between words, sparking and spittleflicking, and he rushed through his sentences as he shot each word into Adam’s chest.  You think that’s some kind of excuse!?  Five minutes is five hours!  It doesn’t matter how late you are, don’t you know that!?  What is your obligation exactly?  Adam had wondered how Mr. Kronovier could make his skin ripple like that; his whole face would rumble with anger as the rage-ignited oil flamed through his arteries to color it.  You don’t even know, do you!?  I...I...  Your obligation is to get here on time!  I have been very patient with you, Mr. Thompson, and if you don’t shape up!  He had slammed his massive hand onto his desk and cracked the wood.  Lord, he’d actually cracked the wood.

           Adam jumped into his car and powered out of the driveway.  Thank God they’d raised the interstate speed limit to 85 last year or he’d truly be done for.  The nerve of her.  She knows what she does to me.  It’s ok.  I’ll sneak in through the back.  No no, he’ll be there.  He’s always there.  Dorris likes me.  Yeah, that’s it; I’ll go by the front desk.  Dorris won’t tell him.  Who am I kidding?  It doesn’t matter.  He’ll be standing over my desk, looking at his watch.  Panicked, sweating, Adam took his normal exit.  Traffic.  For the love of

         Mr. Kronovier was sitting at Adam’s desk when he arrived. 

         —Hello, Mr. Thompson.  He said, looking at his watch.  It appears you’re a bit late.  Again.

           —I’m so sorry, Mr. Kronovier, the traffic was— 

         —You’re God damn right you’re sorry, Mr. Thompson.  Five times now.  And if it happens again, I expect your desk to be cleaned out and fast.

         —Yes sir, I understand.  But, please, I promise not to be late again. 

         —Mr. Thompson, I’ve given you plenty of chances.

           —But sir

         Mr. Kronovier’s voice reverberated in baritone solemnity. 

         —Adam, everyone else arrives on time every day.  Everyone else is at his desk exactly when he needs to be.  Everyone else is integrating his clients’ finances onto the network by the deadline.  Everyone else is on the phone all day and even on the commute, trying to get his portfolio together as soon as possible. 

         Adam turned his head to look at the cubicles.  Everyone else.  Sitting at their desks, chattering into their Bluetooth headsets while typing up some response email while placing a business order online in preparation for the office party coming up.  A cold grind from the kitchen, where the refrigerator was humming, presided over the scene, and machinery buzz from the street wreathed itself through the noise of the office, weaving the pop-and-click downtown symphony.  Adam listened while Mr. Kronovier conducted his variations on the theme.

         —Adam, we’re rushed here, and we need things done immediately. 

         The Bluetooth chatter continued behind him.  He heard snippets of the conversations: “yes, you can reach me anytime at,” “don’t worry, we’ll get you that information immediately,” “well, you can always contact me at,” “let me give you my cell number.”  As they typed and rambled, Adam thought about his job and theirs.  College-assembled finance machines—this is what expendability feels like.  Information lit on wires and waves, data and sound, via internet and cellphone connections, reaching its destination as close to immediately as technology could manage.  It wasn’t fast enough.

           —Yes, sir, I understand completely.  I promise not to be late in the future.

           —Remember this, Adam: the future is overrated.  Mr. Kronovier’s voice quavered uncharacteristically, and for a brief second he turned his eyes away.  They darted back and he continued, his words cracked and thin and hollowed.

         —So is the past.  What matters is now.  I’d like to say that’s exclusive to this company, that we’re special in that somehow, but it’s not true.  No matter where you go, Adam, they’re going to rely on you at that moment, not before, not after.  When you do finally get your work done, it’s quality work, high quality, but I’d rather have an employee who gets things done on time.  Much rather.

         With that, Mr. Kronovier turned and walked to his office, pausing at the door for a brief moment.  He looked around, as though he expected someone, and then cautiously turned the knob.  Just the office.  Of course.  He remembered again to breathe, and exhaled sharply.  Entering the room, Mr. Kronovier closed the door, walked over to the desk, and picked up his favorite picture.  His wife smiled back at him, holding their son.  Missing you—patterned on the frame in silver lettering.  Now had been tiring enough for her, but for his son…  Tears pooled in his eyes as he began to redecorate.

         Adam sat at his desk to work.  The chatter continued.  Even though no one else had heard the exchange, Adam’s face boiled with shame.  Mr. Kronovier had actually chewed him out in public.  God, out in front of everyone!  The embarrassment mixed with something else in his stomach, making him queasy.  Something was still bothering him.           He was still shaking when he pulled into his driveway that same evening.  Five fifteen, and the city was a fugue of doorslams.  Garage door, car door, front door, car door, back door, garage door.  Point, counterpoint, variation, counterpoint.  A city plopped down in front of their televisions.  Four hundred channels and nothing was on, thank God for Tivo and internet streams.  Waiting was for soup kitchens, welfare lines, and retirement homes.  Adam switched his TV on, then instantly off.  Now was not the time to dissolve in the culture of immediacy.  Something was bothering him.

         His thoughts turned slowly, focusing on something.  Something bothering him.  Back to something.  Back to the day when they’d both stood outside the clinic, he pleading, she crying.  Please, he’d said, I’ll help you.  I know we can pull through this.  For God’s sake, think of our child!  She’d looked up at him.  A ghoul’s face, pale, hungry and impatient.  No, Adam, I want it taken care of now.  He wondered how long she’d taken to come to that decision; she’d only found out that same day.  It was just an inconvenience to her.  I’m going to have to tell my father, she’d moaned.  Adam had looked at the other girls going into the building, their hearts rent in two, the decision even now ripping their minds apart.  Turning, he’d looked back at her, wailing about her father, impatient for the procedure to begin, and felt an oily disgust oozing into the wells of his soul.  Slowflowing.  Heavy.  She didn’t care then, and she didn’t care now.  Mr. Kronovier was right.  The past was overrated. 

         She had turned, then, and proudly walked into the building, he following close behind.  Until the wedding, that was the last he’d seen of her.

         Sitting in his living room, Adam looked at his surroundings.  Television, internet, cell phone: technology littered the room.  The world was at his fingertips.  This world.  Mr. Kronovier’s world.  He’d get up in time tomorrow.  Get to work on time.  Make a habit out of it.  Block her number from the phone.  The past was overrated.  The thought washed over his mind, over the torpid revulsion of memory, and soothed him into rationality.  Alert now—ready—Adam opened his briefcase, removing the papers he’d brought home with him.  It was time to do things right.  What was it T. S. Eliot said?  And indeed now is the time?  He’d look it up tomorrow.  Now it was time to think about now.  Time to efface the pain of the past.  G.  mno.  mno.  d.  ab.  wxy.  de.  Period.  Send.  Just like your wedding invitation.  Block this number?  Yes.

         That night Adam had a dream.  There were twelve cows standing in a field.  Six of the cows were starving and thin, the other six fed.  Above them, on a hill, stood a bull with blue teeth, who gaped open his mouth, wider and wider. Cavernous, lit with bolts of electricity, it grew into a massive void, and consumed the other animals in the same moment.  He knew all there was to know—all others were within immediate reach; he consumed instantly when he needed to consume, and his hunger never died away.  A bull-god, a champion of immediacy, a messiah of instant gratification, he never slowed—never stopped.  Blackened by desire, his eyes flashed with only hunger, infinite and terrible.  Suddenly there were many bulls, all connected to one another by blinding blue bolts of electricity, each consuming twelve different cows of his own.  Around them the earth withered as they devoured anything to fill their emptiness, counting no second wasted.  In the sky, where the sun should have been, there hovered an enormous pocket watch, the glass cracked across its face.  Each tick boomed with a thunder-roll, and it warmed the bulls and their hard hearts were pleased.

Part Two: The Watchman

         Shower steam fogged the mirror as Adam brushed his teeth.  Rinse.  Spit.  Again.  Adam let loose a volley onto the mirror, clearing away the gathering steam, and studied himself.  A bit of introspection between attentions to hygiene.  He smiled, his pure, watery discourse washing away obstruction.  Here was the dihydrogen peroxide rhetoric, he knew, of perfect self-knowledge, the instant access to all things.  How Joycean.  But now was not the time for literary fantasies.  Green pastewaterspit out on the mirror again—only spitting, spitting out the same crap he’d already taken in.  Tap water, at that.  Adam wiped the mirror clean with a washcloth—a towel is more useful than a fucking metaphor.  What a waste of time his education was.  If only he’d known how close the advent of Wikipedia had been.  Ironic that he would have had to wait in order not to wait.  But the days of waiting were over.  In the next room, the alarm clock went off, and Adam sighed with relief that he was already awake.  Another narrow miss in the world of clichés.

         The seatbelt buckle seared Adam’s hand as he grabbed it.  Summer.  Backing out of the driveway, he looked at his dashboard clock.  He had to be at work now.  Had to get there early.  Had to.  His punctual obsession gripped his flesh and wrung sweat from his palms, and the asphalt seemed to scream beneath his tires—a roadshriek of motion, of timely arrival, of immediacy.  He switched the radio on, then instantly off; something was bothering him.  Snarling commands into his Bluetooth headset, Adam took his normal exit.  A bit of traffic.  What a headache.  The limit’s 85, asshole!  He passed the slower car, glancing with disdain at the driver.  Some old bint.  What a shit head.  Adam wondered whether that woman had a job.  Probably not.  Who the hell would drive that slowly?  I have to be at work now.  His car pumped through the winding highway veins that flowed into the heart of the city.

         Adam arrived on time for work.  Barely: that fucking old whore.  The other employees filed into their desks simultaneously, footsteps drumming the office nocturne on the carpet.  Piff padder piddle poff chair-slide sit.  The building was cold today.  And quiet.  No, the murmur began.  Deadened morning words, cold and stiff.  Mr. Kronovier’s office door was open an inch, but no one saw this.  The employees exhumed Blackberries and Bluetooth sets from their pockets—the mourning ritual—eulogizing their clients’ financial problems.  They were the swift, merciful death of debt—bills and bankruptcy folded before them, the rulers of immediate financial satisfaction.  No one was slow; their operations just as immediate and urgent as they would be in the afternoon.  Adam walked toward Mr. Kronovier’s door.  Time to put this animosity to rest.

         Adam pushed open Mr. Kronovier’s already ajar door.  Emptydesk.  Where is Mr. Kronovier?  The college degrees and family pictures that had once decorated the room were now gone, and a thickening layer of dust covered the empty room.  Adam coughed.  It looked as if no one had worked there for years; there was hardly any evidence of anyone having worked there at all.  Except for Kronovier’s watch.  It sat on the table, broken, the glass cracked across its face, no longer ticking.  Adam looked at the watch, and something in the dust around it caught his eye.  What is that?  He looked closer.  Something was written there, L—oo—What was the next one?  k.  There was more… And—S?—a…no, ee the r—eal now.  An arrow pointed to the office window blinds that blocked the view of the cubicle park.  Curious, Adam opened them.  As he squinted through the glass, he saw what he did not expect.  He thought it may all have been an illusion, the hallucinatory fantasies of a madman, but there were his co-workers, yammering away into Bluetooth headsets as always.  Day after day, the broken watch on the desk their God, they blatherbargained for immediate answers.  For those obsessed with instant satisfaction, time wove in on itself, locked in a mobius of moving stasis.

         Adam looked back at the vacant office chair, and then turned his head to look at the cubicles.  Everyone else.  Sitting at their desks, chattering into their Bluetooth headsets while typing up some response email while placing a business order online in preparation for the office party coming up.  A cold grind from the kitchen, where the refrigerator was humming, presided over the scene, and machinery buzz from the street wreathed itself through the noise of the office, weaving the pop-and-click downtown symphony.

         An active daysleep grew from the languid haste of the cubicles as Adam watched the employees.  No one saw him.  While they stared dreaming into their computer screens, Adam left the office and walked to the roof of the building. The sun had seeped over the horizon, soaking the buildings with raw color.  Adam saw this.  He looked out over the edge of the rooftop, watching greysuited men and women rushing around, hastening to make good time.  Adam did not smile; he was not happy.

         Watching his surroundings with childlike curiosity, he took the drive home slowly, and pulled carefully into the driveway so as not to disturb the lawn.  Inside his living room, Adam sat on the couch and stared at his effects.  Tivo, cell phone, internet, technology littered the room.  Waiting was for soup kitchens, welfare lines, and retirement homes.  Adam waited.  There would be time for pleasure, time for entertainment, time for work.  Now was the time to wait.

         The boredom flowed through his body, deep into his heart, and from it bubbled a stream of languorous contentment, which poured over his mind, soothing him.  Misery hummed through him, and Adam began to laugh.

         Still laughing, even harder now, Adam left his house and drove out to a field on the outskirts of town.  There he exited the vehicle and sat down on the grass, the wind blowing on his face.  Adam stopped laughing, and remembered the line of poetry he had not been able to the night before.

         —And indeed there will be time.

         He smiled, wider than he had ever smiled, and tears streamed down his face.  Miserable happiness blanketed his mind; for the first time in his life, he knew for certain that he was unhappy.  In the culture of immediacy, the Wikipedia world of instant gratification, Adam felt he had found the one thing left to find for oneself.  He smiled again.  No one saw this.