THE MAN WHO SOLD TIME

"THE MAN WHO SOLD TIME"

"TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE"

AN ORGINAL SHORT STORY BY

CHARLES H. SCOTT


"Nothing should be more highly prized than the value of each day."
GOETHE

Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways.
STEPHEN VINCENT BENÉT

Life is a series of little deaths out of which life always returns.
CHARLES FEIDELSON, JR.


Are you living in the past?  The present?  Or the future? 

Does one day run indistinguishable into weeks and weeks into months and months into years, without anything ever really getting done?

Are you tired of life passing you by because there just isn't enough time to do it all?

Not a moment to spare?

Looking for ways to create more time?

Would you give anything to have that extra time you need?

If you answered yes to any of the above questions take heart. 

THERE IS HOPE.  I, DR. TIME, CAN HELP YOU.

"MAKE TIME YOUR ALLY.  FOR AS SURE AS YOU DON'T, IT SHALL BECOME YOUR ENEMY."


         I remember the first time I saw this ad.  It was in the back of the L.A. Weekly.  I was bored.  It was late on another date-less Saturday night.  And I was flipping mindlessly through the back section where the personal ads are, you know the ones, where some geeky "professor" wants to meet a beautiful, voluptuous girl half his age for "stimulating conversation and a mutually satisfying relationship", when I first ran across this ad for DR. TIME. 

         The artwork immediately caught my eye.  Odd I should recall that so clearly now after all these years.  I guess somethings make such an indelible and enduring impression that many years and a million miles can't obliterate.  Basically, it consisted of a zany looking professor holding an unbroken chain, composed of all manner and specimen of timepieces that he has just alleviated a hapless victim of.  On a poster behind him, another man dangles from the arms of a huge church tower clock, hanging perilously close to losing his grip and plummeting into an ever-widening black hole in the sands of time far below.

         Perchance it was the imagery of being enslaved by the tangled chains of time, or dangling over the yawning jaws of the abyss in the quagmire of life and thus in danger of being swallowed up by time itself that struck a chord deep within my inner being.  Yeah, I thought, I sometimes (more often lately) felt there weren't enough hours in the day to accomplish half of what I must do to catch-up with last week's tasks left undone.  Like the colorful characters in Lewis Carrol's fanciful tale "Alice in Wonderland" having to run ever faster to stay in the same place, only in my case it was twisted and perverted to the point where the faster I ran the behinder I got.

         Without any conscious intent, I tore out the ad and filed it in my desk.  After thinking it over for a few days, I decided not to act.  For now.

         My life continued on its haphazard course.  No particular plan or pre-determined destination.  Taking things pretty much as they came.  I did what I could to save time: cancelled unread magazine subscriptions, cleaned my apartment for the umpteenth-time, and disassociated myself from all extraneous activities and organizations.  Still, I heard myself saying "I don't have time for this or that".
 
         And still I got further behind.

         The flotsam and jetsam of my existence was continuing to pile up inescapably.  Time was wasting day after squandered day.  It surrounded me, closing in, suffocating me, filling my senses like the cloyingly sweet or astringently repugnant medicinal scents of a death bed until they become one with the breath you exhale, leaving a lingering aftertaste like some gastronomic halitosis.

         One gray, cheerless dawn I completely broke down.  Drowning in a sea of self-imposed difficulties and going under for the last time, I admitted, finally, that I was in need of professional assistance if I was ever to recapture control over my time and ultimately my life.  Over the years, I had attended numerous "time management" seminars.  But, aside from a few simple tricks, nothing I learned lead to the results I sought.

         So, I rummaged through my desk drawer to find DR. TIME's ad.  I checked it out.  There was no phone number, only an address: 212 Duffield Street, #7.  A rough part of town, I thought to myself as I headed for my apartment door.

         Before I knew it, I was standing outside DR. TIME's office with my hand on the doorknob ready for ... ready for what? I wondered.  Exactly what I hoped to gain from all of this even I wasn't sure.  One thing was dead certain: I had this eerie, perhaps even ominous, almost prescient feeling that once I walked through DR. TIME's door things would never be quite the same again.  And there would be no turning back. 

         Soon, I was to learn how very right I was.

         Outside, the building was a vagrant one-story structure on a protracted block of condemned tenements -- a failed experiment in social engineering and the epitome of grasping civic greed.  Inside, it was a dark and serious space as befits the austere nature of Dr. Time's vocation.  Lilliputian windows let in only a paltry amount of light.  The furnishings were age-worn, thread-bare and more than a little bit dreary.  This was not the sort of place one would spend more time than necessary in.  Perhaps that was the very idea.

         DR. TIME appeared in the room as if materializing out of the thin, rarefied air.  "Welcome to Doctor Time's humble office," he said, bowing slightly.

         He turned out to be a diminutive man with an oval pinkish face and a head full of undisciplined snowy white curls.  Intensely inquisitive eyes peered out from underneath his bushy, unruly eyebrows and thick coke-bottle glasses that continually slid down his long, pointed nose.  He moved nimbly for as old as he appeared.  And, as I soon discovered, his wisdom was beyond any possible years.  When he spoke, his words were well-chosen, spoken with conviction and delivered most emphatically.  "How might I be of service to you, young man."

         "I came about the ad in the L.A. Weekly."

         He blinked up at me from behind those thick lenses.  Waited for me to continue.

         Then, I pulled out the ad from my jacket, reading directly from its text: "`With my proven techniques, I can give you back control of your life by enabling you full mastery over your time.'"  I looked him over very carefully.  "Is this for real?  Can you do all that you claim?"  I gave him my best "Doubting Thomas" side glance.

         "All that and much, much more," Dr. Time said without a heartbeat's hesitation.

         I stood there blank.  "How?" was all I could force out of my tight throat.

         "Oh, you shall learn soon enough, I assure you, that time is at our command.  Suffice it to say that after undergoing my treatment, your conception of time -- the very way you perceive it -- won't be the same.  After that, all the time in the world will be yours to manipulate."

         I wanted to believe; in fact it could be truthfully said, that I needed to believe.  But a life of skepticism and inertia can't be reversed all at once.

         "I can see you are skeptical, young man.  That is to be expected."  He stared at me with those anamorphic eyes.  As if in some inexplicable way, he knew my innermost thoughts before I did.

         "I have to ... I need to know now what to expect," I stated.  It was direct.  And it was the simple, unadulterated truth.

         Dr. Time scratched the riotous shock of white hair, "How can I explain what must be experienced in order to be understood?  Experience is the best teacher of all."  He said nothing more.

         "Well, first of all, you could start by telling me what this process involves," I blurted out.

         He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as if this inquiry had completed taken him unawares.  "The answer lies in the process."

         That's it?, I thought.  I waited for him to continue.

         Satisfied with his reply, he just stood there waiting for me to do or say something.  His patience would have taxed Job; after all, according to him, he had all the time in the world at his disposal.

         My need to know coupled with his obtuse and evasive answer heated up my internal cauldron of doubt to boiling.  "This is absurd.  Why am I even here talking this nonsense with you?  I refuse to believe such a thing is possible!," I said.

         Doctor Time removed his glasses.  He rubbed the bridge of his long nose where the spectacles had made indelible impressions.  His eyes seemed even wiser with the bifocals removed.  "The Great Buddha once said that the essence of life boiled down to two truths: The first one is `Life is about suffering.'"

         And what's the second? I thought to myself.

         He pinched his chin, preparing to speak, as he scrutinized me most closely.  "The second is that `All people suffer.'  Life is oftentimes populated with great difficulties.  If you let them, they will rule every part of your life like a despot on an imperial crusade.  You must be ruthless in fighting for hegemony over your needless suffering."

         I sighed deeply.  The tidal force of his words washed over me.

         His eyebrows askew, he remarked, "You could get up, walk out and forget ever having been here.  Whether you continue this treatment or not is of little importance to me."

         He fixed his omniscient gaze upon me.

         "However," he paused for effect, "I'd strongly advise you to consider the alternatives and their respective consequences very carefully.  You came to me for a reason.  Perhaps you are looking for a new answer to an old problem, but have exhausted your options.  There are always other options.  Exercise your best judgment.  And remember: `Time can be a valuable ally or a formidable adversary.'  The choice is entirely yours."

         He was right.  I could get up, walk out and forget it.  The status quo would remain the status quo until my dying day.  But what choice did I really have?  My time -- and therefore my life -- was out of control.  This might just be my best, my last and maybe my only chance.  If I walked out now I would never know, and I might just as well forget regaining mastery of my destiny ever again.

         I sat there silent, lost in my own thoughts when his sudden declaration jolted me back to my senses.

         "Befuddlement," he exclaimed.

         I regarded him with bewildered eyes.  "I beg your pardon," I responded, somewhat taken aback at the abruptness of his comment.

         "Befuddlement.  That's your problem," he stated.

         "What are you talking about?"

         "Plainly speaking," Dr. Time began explaining again, "you are a victim of disordered thinking.  Your inability to deal with the myriad mundane details that assault you everyday leads to their backing up, a spate of time demands clogging your mind up like an overloaded sewer drain if you will.  Diverting your flow of time and talents to worthless tasks.  This organizational loggerhead requires 80% of your invaluable time to accomplish 20% of the mostly trivial and unnecessary tasks.  A terrible waste of time and energy, don't you think?"

         I had to avert my eyes when he glanced over at me.  He was right.  And I knew it.  There was no escaping his interrogating stare, however.

         "People are alike wherever you go -- it is their habits which distinguish them.  Once man masters himself, then time is limitless.  Possibilities and opportunities are too.  But for you now, time seems to be going faster than before.  Now, there's never enough time.  There's always something else to do," he said.
 
         How could this total stranger know me so well?  All I could do was nod my acquiescence to his accurate assessment.

         "You have sat idly by and let life gain the upperhand.  If you want to make the decisions, you must wrestle authority over your thoughts away from the needs of immediate gratification and self-doubt -- the ruinous quicksands of a dissipated life -- then and only then can you hope to conquer your fear of time and beyond that, life itself."

         Dr. Time was a man to whom words meant not just something but many things.  He never used one word when 20 perfectly good ones would possibly come to mind.  His manner of speech was somewhere between a wise Oriental philosopher like Confucius, and the down home American homilies of an Abe Lincoln or a Will Rogers.  His voice was at once lyrical and soothing.  I enjoyed listening to him.  I sat there enthralled.

         "Learn lessons from the past and move on.  In trying to hold onto the past, man forgets to live in the present.  The past, which no longer exists, impedes our progress, dulls our motivation, causes us to squander our time in foolish, ill-advised and vain pursuits, attempting to correct some egregious error of omission or commission, trying to do that which has been left undone.  Always and endlessly chasing after the setting sun, trying our damnedest to save time, realizing all too precipitously and, sadly, often much too late, that we can never regain the mis-spent past."  His intensity rose several notches.

         Meanwhile, I'm thinking "tell me something I don't already know".

         "Likewise, to believe the present, this immediate moment, is all that's important is just as an egregious error.  This philosophy of `Live for today -- there is no tomorrow' arises from the understandable sense of impending doom which comes from living in an age of instant breakfast and fast-food fashion and the omnipresent threat of imminent annihiliation.  Yet, the attitude that tomorrow doesn't count is foolish and otherwise patently absurd.  That precept ignores everything we know about time, progress, evolution." 

         Three simple words: TIME, PROGRESS and EVOLUTION.  They hung in the dusty air of this claustrophobic space like a lingering morning dew.  Monoliths of linear thinking in an increasingly non-linear age.  I chuckled inwardly.

         "The key lies in living life in the present with an eye to the future," he observed.  "The chain of time and events gone by cannot be altered.  However, the present, itself a bond to the past and a link to the future, can be fashioned after our own predilections.

         "Time is not the problem, you see.  It is the way we relate to it that's the genesis of our discomfiture.  In not stressing the importance of the here and now as part of an endless continuum, we forget the lessons history has taught us and remain chained to the aberrations of the past.  We retain our blindness to the promise of the future as if it were a badge of honor.  This, and this alone amongst all else, impedes man's progress, perhaps even evolution itself," he declared.

         "It's easy for you to talk.  I wanna know what these claims are all about?"  I thought to myself as I said it aloud.  My inner rage boiled over.  I averted my eyes when he glanced over at me, for they probed deep into my hidden self.

         Dr. Time backed away, perhaps slightly perturbed.  He cocked his head and with a clinical gaze tried to ascertain my state of mind.  "The key to time, you see, is in each individual's mind.  Everyone of us, theoretically, has the same amount of time each day.  Each of us must decide for themselves how we'll spend it.  Therefore, each and everyone can, indeed must, define time for themselves.  By deciding what they feel is important enough to spend the one commodity that, on any given day, is equal for all, but over a lifetime is never enough for anyone, each man shows what's really most important in his life."

         He was wound up tighter than a three dollar watch.  Ready to break a sweat at any moment so fervent his beliefs.

         "Their habits.  It is the key to life and character."  He looked at me and he smiled.  "There's an old Chinese proverb: 'Make good habits and they will make you.'  It is as true today as it was then."  He shot me with a consciousness piercing grimace.

         This utterance distressed me considerably.  What did the way I used my time and what did my habits say about my character?  Once, I knew who I was.  Now, however, I wasn't sure I really wanted to know.

         He handed me a clipboard with a very lengthy and detailed survey attached labeled "Confidential".  "Perhaps you should go home and think about this for awhile longer.  In the meantime, complete this time usage and personality profile.  Then, after you've reconsidered, if you feel I may be of some meager service, please feel free to call upon me again."  He fixed me with a wizened stare.  "Don't wait too long.  He who hesitates is lost!"

         Deliberately, I got to my feet, reeling slightly from his keen but overpowering proximity.  Taking a moment to collect my thoughts, I glanced out of the corner of my eye at this strangely compelling snippet of a man.

         He hunched slightly as if he now bore the burden of some of my problems.  His shoulders slumped as we walked down the long narrow hallway leading to the front door.

         Almost as an afterthought, or as if completing his earlier thought, he opened the door as he said:  "For what man knows how much time he really has?"

         I left Dr. Time's office with that question dogging my every step and hounding all my waking hours thereafter.  That was an enigma, all right.  But the question I couldn't answer was why had I answered the ad in the first place.  It wasn't the sort of thing I made a habit of doing.

         All the rest of that ensuing week flew by in a dizzying blur.  Everywhere I looked the signs of time quickly slipping into the future confronted me.  The hands on the wall clock raced faster around the dial.  Clocks everywhere chimed on the hour and the half-hour as if to say "TIME's awasting".  It was as if everything had willfully sped up to underscore Dr. Time's points.  In fact, with the advent of daylight-savings time, I lost another hour to the once yearly ritual of spring.

         And Dr. Time's rationale was all lined up like so many beats in a debate; each one compounding the meaning of the previous one, adding more gravity to the argument's weight; each one of the inferences necessary but not of themselves quite sufficient to stand alone or to prove his case.  Synergistically, however, they added up to the irrefutable theorem set forth in Dr. Time's calculus: "If you don't control time -- it controls you."

         These thoughts (and many more) occupied my gray matter for the duration of that week.  My feverish brain boiled in its claustrophobia, so overcrowded with thoughts I couldn't censor or disregard.  Thoughts dredged up from the deepest depths of my soul, rising up like a primal scream imploring some higher power to bring order out of the chaos of my life.

WEEK 2
         
         The preceding week passed all too quickly.  Before I knew it, (and almost against my conscious will), I again stood on Dr. Time's doorstep preparing to enter.

         Dr. Time wasted not a second in getting down to the business at hand.  "During the next few weeks, we will restructure your pre-conceptions, or should I say 'mis-conceptions', of the paucity of time.  In the process, new ways of viewing time will be introduced.  New behaviors with respect to time will be inculcated into your pattern of thinking and habitual manner of behaving.  Once again, you will be in command of your life.  And, as a result, you will have more free time with which to pursue more pleasurable pastimes - whatever they may be!."

         He walked over to a counter where he lifted the clipboard with my completed questionnaire which he glanced at not infrequently.

         "We humans are ruled by celestial bodies whose movements control our lives but over whose transit we can assert not the most insignificant influence.  Each arc of the blazing sun or appearance by the oracular full moon signifies the irrepressible march of time.  No one knows when life began or, for that matter, how or when it is likely to end.  One thing is for certain: man created time in order to propagate our illusion of controlled progress.  What folly!  Controlled progress is an oxymoron," he chortled.

         By now, I'm thinking this guy is not altogether sane.  I grimaced.  And I questioned my own sanity at having come here a second time.

         He set down the chart on his desk.  A serious expression  settled upon his face.  "To live a life where all things are possible and you can succeed beyond your wildest dreams, or fritter away the dull moments expending another day's useless energy on unfounded hopes and wishful thinking, this is the choice you must make.  You must decide which it is to be.  But take my word for it, for I am a man who knows whereof he speaks: Make time your ally.  For as sure as you don't, it shall become your most pernicious opponent.  It's up to you."

         I asked myself: What should I do?  If this is really possible, wouldn't I be a fool to pass-up the chance?  My life was at stake here!

         The room fell totally silent.  Though he was merely a few feet away, it was as if he'd absented himself from the proceedings, leaving me alone in the room with only my disjointed thoughts for company.  My palms sweated profusely and my heart beat inside my chest ardently.

         Suddenly he spoke.  "One can not save time in a bottle.  The processional parade of time is the only true immutable constant of the natural, physical laws.  Its course may be altered, but only under specific circumstances involving peculiar complications."

         Now we're getting somewhere, I thought.

         He looked down at me.  "I can't help wondering what you're really after."

         "I'm not sure myself.  Sometimes I feel like everything, every aspect of my life is beyond my control.  I oftentimes wake up adrift.  An awful sense of powerlessness grips my inner being, paralyzing me with frantic, oppressive inaction.  Alternatingly, life's either too big to handle in a thousand lifetimes or too small to be concerned with in this one.  Until finally, each day has become a conundrum unto itself," I heard myself cry out.  "I don't feel I have any choice," I said defeatedly.

         "There is always a choice.  Whether you know it or not.  It is for you to decide which it will be," Dr. Time repeated.  "Only you can determine what you really want from your life.  It is impossible for me or anyone else to say."

         Truer words were never spoken.  I felt something deep within my soul give way, as if some long-ago sealed off sarcophagus of repressed emotion had been exposed to the probing fingers of sunlight.  It wasn't my wont to expose myself to others, but I experienced an inexplicable compulsion to bare my soul to Dr. Time. "Even my leisure time is no longer leisurely," I informed him.  "I feel guilty using time I can't spare spending money that I don't really have."  Oh God, I thought to myself, can this really be happening to me?

                Once again he looked at my responses to his questionnaire.  "For time is money, you see.  If you are not doing ten things at once you are wasting your time.  Your middle class background encourages this thinking.  Why is it most people return from a vacation more anxiety-ridden than when they departed?"

                   Where is this conversation heading, I wondered.  Though perplexed by his question, I hastened an attempt at a reasonable response.  "I suppose because there wasn't enough time to do and see everything.  And, perhaps, they couldn't afford it."

         "Precisely," he said as he scratched his Van Dyke beard.  "If you are not using your time to make money, then you are probably spending them both.  That's what was once referred to as "opportunity costs".  Using your time or money to do one thing precludes using those same precious resources for anything else."

         He shook his head and shrugged his stooped shoulders.  "It's a double-bind.  For time, unlike money, cannot be saved, stockpiled from the endless moments of boredom and transferred to a time-share mutual fund.  After a day's time is past, it is forever lost to the quicksands of mortality.  When it comes to time and money -- one must spend both wisely."

         I sat there silent, not knowing what to say or, for that matter, if a response was either expected or required.

         He handed me a sheaf of papers that were stapled and folded in half.  "I want you to read this and precisely follow the directions.  That is all for now.  Come back next week."  He shuffled to open the door.

         The cold March rain that greeted my exit abruptly brought me to my senses.  Things couldn't be as bad as they seemed.  I hoped.

WEEK 3

         Back once again to Dr. Time's.  Don't ask me why, I couldn't say for sure myself, even after mulling over the question the whole week.  That old man had something I needed and I was going to get it from him.  That's all I knew for sure.

         I sat in the chintzy chair once again.

                Dr. Time circled the room as he spoke.  "Did you do as I instructed?"

         "Yes, Dr. Time.  I executed your mandate to the letter."

         Dr. Time had a gratified sparkle in his eyes.  "Wunderbar," he said in the faltering vestige of a Germanic accent.  Queer, I thought to myself, how I only just now placed the nebulous accent.  If anything, his Teutonic heritage only served to increase my admiration for Dr. Time.  I was beginning to understand the forces behind the genesis of his life's occupation.  The lines on his face were etched deep by the years of hard living and taking on the concerns of others.  Yet he seemed infinitely patient.

         "Have you noticed any difference in your psyche about time?"

         "I can't say for sure.  I don't feel as if I were drowning in the flood of time as I had before.  Being in control of my time, nevertheless, is another matter altogether.  There still isn't enough time," I sighed.

         "Tempus Fugit - time flies.  From the second that time was conceptualized, there was not enough.  The minutes race by - the hours rush past - and the days disappear into hastened years.  When you solve the problem of not enough time, thereby providing additional time for rest, relaxation and recreation, you replace phrases like "killing time", "marking time" or "putting in time" with "making time", "taking time" and "mastering time."

         He rubbed his temples with his bony fingers.  "Time changes everyone.  But it changes all in different ways.  You have no doubt heard the phrase: "Time heals all wounds?"  That is only half the truth.  Time heals wounds if there is a sufficient interval and proper motivation.  Where these are absent, time can become an eternal prison, the unending torment of an unregenerative, ever festering wound that doesn't scab over and never quite heals."

         Dr. Time went on, "Every second of every hour of every day must be lived and experienced fully.  For most, however, only when death strikes close do they bother themselves with life's brevity.  Then, as with many of life's adversities, they resolve to live as if every day were their last -- only to backslide before long into their comfortable, and usual, routines and sedentary ways.  The need to reaffirm our existence is strong, yet we grow complacent and bored when life is too easy."

         He regarded me with a critical eye.  "I think next week you are ready for hypnosis."

         Again I left his tiny office, my head reeling, with his words ringing in my ears.  I felt like an unfortunate Tinnitus sufferer never free from the constant, disquieting nuisance.  Even the "white noise" of the outside world couldn't mask the soul-stirring reverberations, the ripples on my consciousness that the images his words conjured up.

WEEK 4

         He leveled his gaze upon me, fixing my attention with his hypnotic stare.  "We will begin soon.  Just relax and breathe deep.  Try to clear your mind.  Now close your eyes."

         As soon as I was relaxed, he began hypnotizing me.  His words were spoken slowly, soothingly.

         "Take deep cleansing breaths.  Visualize a great golden orb of celestial light just above your head.  Its life giving rays caress your face as you luxuriate in the radiant warmth it offers."

         I felt my thoughts drifting.  My eye lids took on a lead weight.  I struggled to remain alert, aware of what was happening.  But to no avail.  Finally, I let go of my desperate hold on consciousness; after all, I thought, what possible difference could it make.  My mind slipped out of my grasp like a cigarette from the fingers of a dozing smoker.

         " -- our "true self" remains irrevocably, irretrievably lost in the past.  The rest of life is spent in an endless search, an all-consuming longing for this lost self.  But you must eventually give up the ghost of the past ..."

         His words came to me as if from some great distance.

         "... and that is the secret to time."  He cleared his dry throat with a phlegmatic cough.  "You will awaken when I count to three.  You will remember everything I have said and act accordingly."  He sat rigidly on the edge of his chair.  "One.  Two. Three."  He snapped his fingers.

         I awoke slowly to the looming sound of his voice.

         Dr. Time squinted at me.  "Ah, there you are, young man."

         How long I had been under hypnosis I couldn't say.  Calm and serenity had washed over me with his inspirational words.  I felt strangely refreshed.  Rejuvenated.

         "You see, that didn't hurt a bit now did it?"

         I lay there for a second longer taking mental inventory.  Everything seemed fine.  Nothing was discernibly different as far as I could tell.

         I simply said, "I feel fine."

         He smiled from behind his opaque glasses.  "Good.  Splendid.  You are a good subject.  Your concentration is excellent.  You hypnotize very easily."

         "Is that good?" I asked.

         "Let us say, it is a good start.  We shall have to wait and see if it persists.  You will come again next week," he said too matter-of-fact for my comfort.

WEEK 5

         Sure enough, next week came and I was back at Dr. Time's.

         He began before I got settled.  "As time travelers, our futures are rooted in our past.  Meanwhile, we become so engrossed in a past we can't change or so fascinated with a future we can only speculate about, that we fail to live in the here and now that we can control.  We speak of things being timeless, but haven't a clue, really."  The doctor had quickly worked himself into a lather.

         He paused for an instant to quench his parched throat before continuing.  "People, you see, are the same wherever you go.  Most aren't willing to wait for what they want.  Their main, indeed often times only, interest is immediate gratification.  You dare not ask them to postpone it for even a second.

         "Everyone rushes about -- this way and that -- never aware of what goes on around them.  Always in a hurry.  As if there were no time available.  Saving seconds here; losing hours there.  Until one day their lives, hanging by a frayed cord, begin to unravel when the loose thread is pulled too tight.

         "When you live life as if there is no tomorrow, don't be surprised when all that's left are yesterdays."

         His words swirled around inside my head, working their magic like brain salad surgery.  I reeled faint and somewhat stupefied.  I'm afraid I swooned, keeling over into the floor helpless.

         After awhile, I came to.  My head ached and my mouth was parched.  I clutched my head in between my hands and squeezed, trying to rid my mind of the swirling mass of images.  I told him, "My empty stomach went to my head."

         Dr. Time brought a glass of water and looked at me solicitously.

         "Am I okay," I asked.  "I mean, have I been cured?"

         "Never better.  You will once again be the master of your time and, therefore, your fate.  I have done all I can for you.  From here on, you must rely upon your own sense of values and aesthetics.  Time is once again yours to command."

                He looked me straight in the eyes as he said: "If you remember nothing else of what I've said, remember this: "A moment's forethought is worth an hour's regrets.  Look not to yesterday's folly but search out today's hidden opportunities and tomorrow's possibilities.

         "What's past is past.  It can not be changed.  One can, however, affect the rest of their lives."

         He looked over his glasses at me.  "Always remember: Learn from the past, look to the future, but live in the present."  With that, Doctor Time capped his fountain pen with an emphatic snap.

         I arose as though the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders.  Feeling giddy and lightheaded, I reeled slightly from side to side.  By contrast, Dr. Time was noticeably more stooped over.  I am ashamed to admit that only then did I consider what the "opportunity costs" were for him, this old man who assumed the burden of others.  He shuffled his feet as he led me down the long corridor to the door.  It was as if he were showing me the way to the rest of my life.

         "Time is the only wealth all are born with.  For some life is but fleeting moments, while for others it is interminable years of suffering.

                  It is the moments in our lives -- not the years -- that shows the stuff we are made of.  In these defining moments, as I call them, decisions are made and actions undertaken that complete our definition of ourselves."

         Dr. Time paused to catch his breath.

         "The irony of life is that when you are young you think you're just killing time, but all the while time is killing you!  Shakespeare said it best in RICHARD II, and I quote: 'I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.' Even so, life is worth living.  One day, perhaps many years from now, you will look back on this as a crossroads on the highway of life and you shall finally understand the meaning of time.  For once you are no longer a slave to time - you shall become its master."

         Reflecting on that epoch in my life now, some twenty years on, I appreciate the lessons learned so long ago and I've come to realize that time is, as Dr. Time so astutely put it, a question of perception.  "Today is tomorrow's yesterday," his words rang out in my consciousness across the intervening years, "the key to life is learning how to live in the time you do have.

         There is no time to waste!"

         Now that's a motto to set your life by.

THE END