Time Machine

She opens the door to her building and starts quickly up the steep, narrow stairs of her fourth floor walk-up. The first floor wreaks of garbage as always. The second smells of heavenly spices and garlic and home. She whips around the third bannister and the familiar smell of weed wafts over her, instinctively easing the tension in her shoulders before the last flight and then she arrives. 4B. The apartment she’s lived in for the past four years. She frantically turns her key, leaving it dangling from the lock, door open. She throws her bag on the small weathered futon and darts into the bathroom. Incredible relief washes over her. Finally. Sitting on the toilet she silently thanks a god she doesn’t believe in.

She drank too much. Again. It happens here. 

Her hungry cat slinks about her feet insisting on more food which she forgot to buy. Again. She’s too tired. Half a bowl will suffice until morning. But Lady won’t back down, that knowing, judgmental look in her eyes. Fine Lady, you win. She always does. She reluctantly heads back downstairs to get some meow mix at the deli next door. While she’s at it, a cup-a-noodle. As she finishes paying, a man asks what she’s up to. She stares blankly at him, grabs the black plastic bag, goes back up stairs, puts the meow mix in Lady’s bowl and heats up her cup-a-noodle. Sometimes a warm cup of msg and freeze dried corn and carrots is all she needs to ease her soul. We don’t have much time left here anyhow, or so they say.

She opens her laptop and turns it on. Bing bong. Why is it bing bong now? She ponders how much she spent on a new model only for this discernible difference before she begins to type all the alcohol induced wisdom she can manage before collapsing onto her already unmade bed. She wakes a little while later with the sun, she forgot to close her curtain. Her head feels particularly hot and sweaty. It seems Lady has made herself comfortable there. Her tail swishing back and forth with that regal entitlement cats possess, emboldened by the seemingly inherent knowledge that they’ve been a worshipped breed. And here she is, Lady’s humble human servant, to have when she feels like it and hold when it suits her till death does them part. 

She’s resigned to getting up, knowing she won’t be able to get back to sleep now. She always has trouble. Alcohol doesn’t help. But the momentary relief seems to outweigh that fact.

She puts on some coffee, places a piece of bread in the oven and fries two eggs. The pan she has is so old no matter how much oil she uses they always come out sloppy, but she doesn’t mind. She goes to pour the coffee, strategically holding the lip of the pot as she pours. The handle comes off if you don’t. She’ll spend a fortune on electronics but won’t buy new kitchenware. 

She eats her eggs and toast and drinks the strong black coffee, easing the ache in the back of her head from not sleeping enough. 

Ok, back to work. She opens her laptop to see what she managed to get through last night. Bing bong. There’s gotta be a way to change that. 

Alright, where was she? Yes…

“We’re all going in circles trying to find our purpose before the machine stops. For generations they’ve told us it will. Countless tales of self destruction and post apocalyptic circumstances but we somehow seem to survive. Survive to tell the tales and to write more.”

That suddenly seems more frightening. An eternal machine. That the machine will never stop, but will prevail no matter the circumstance. Or perhaps it’s comforting? She wants to believe that if the machine doesn’t stop it is in part because the good in us prevails and prevents a total loss of humanity. But who knows? And then, what is her purpose? What is the purpose of any of this?

Oh no, she’s going down the spiral again. A tidal wave closing in on her and the significance of anything she’s ever done or thought. She shuts her computer. She needs a break. 

She goes to yoga. On her way back stops for a bite to eat. She remembers she wanted to grab some things at the drug store, call her mom, send a package to her cousin for her birthday. Ok, she’s feeling better, more grounded. She can revisit her writing about the possible end of the world now. Just then she gets a message from her friend. Boodle doop doop. Really? She looks through her settings and sees this fun new noise is called “spunky fever”.

The message is from her friend inviting her out for a drink. She could spare a little time for one drink I guess. I mean what’s the point of anything if you’re not going to spend time with the people you care about right? She goes. They have a glass of wine, then two. Talk about life and love and hopes and dreams and silly mundane things. They have a couple more glasses because it’s two for one and it gets her out of her head. But then she looks at the time which suddenly feels suffocating. 

It’s so much later then she planned on being out. How has she wasted the whole day? She apologizes to her friend but she has to run. She leaves some cash and slips out of the bar down into the nearest subway. She accidentally makes eye contact with a guy who is about to say something but the subway doors open and she quickly gets on. She turns around and sees through the glass that he is asking someone else for directions. She feels bad but can’t erase the experience that has taught her not to take those chances. 

She’s finally back in front of her building and starts cursing herself for getting distracted. She makes the rounds of steep stairs back up to her apartment in a frenzy: garbage, spices, weed, 4B. 

Bypassing Lady’s charms she goes straight to her laptop and opens it wildly, determined to get to the bottom of it this time. This time. 

She looks at the clock. It’s still early enough. This time is a tricky character.  

She reads back:

“I feel like I’ve been stuck, my whole life. I keep trying to write. It feels like I need to write. But just when I begin to get to the bottom of it it feels as though my mind hits a wall and can’t move forward. So I don’t, I get caught up in the machines distractions. There are so many. Friends, and shows and books and articles and outings and events and parties and dinners and then I don’t even know who I am anymore or what I wanted to begin with. Oh yes, to write! To write. But what? And it feels as if I have to start all over again and once I’m making real progress the wall comes. I wonder if the machine controls this wall? It must. And then not everyone can break through the wall can they? Or at least not all at once. It has to be spaced out, regulated. I have faith. I have faith the machine will let me through when the time is right.”

There’s a loud knock at the door. That’s always alarming here when you’re not expecting someone. She waits, maybe they got the wrong apartment. Another knock comes, louder and more insistent this time. She makes her way cautiously to the door when her phone dings- boodle doop doop. She takes it out of her pocket. 

It’s an unknown number. She reluctantly opens it. “It’s time.” is all it says. She carefully looks back at the door. “Time?” She squeaks out, as if it might finally be time itself in the flesh and everything will make sense or explode or spin out of control. Or maybe she really did drink that much this time and time has come to collect her.  

“Time waits for no one.” Replies a forced husky voice. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes knowing who that voice belongs to. 

“Ughh, asshole!” She unlocks and opens the door, breathing a sigh of relief. His flight must’ve gotten in early. He continues in the forced husky voice. “That’s Father Time to youuu.” He makes himself into a spooky ticking clock with both hands shooting straight up and his right “hand” ticking down. 

“You’re ticking backwards mister time.” 

“I am all mighty Timeeee.” His voice returns to his normal tenor register. “I can tick however I want, yo.” 

She smirks and goes to put on some tea. Father Time makes himself comfortable on the little futon, strategically dodging a stain left by Lady’s indigestion. 

“Well ok then, all mighty Time, can you tick us back to our ninth grade talent show and tell me not to wear that tube top that caused my infamous wardrobe malfunction.” She leaves the kettle to boil and joins him on the other side of the stain. 

“Hey, you got loads of numbers from that.” 

“Yeah and they all just wanted to know if they were real.” 

“And…?”

She shoots him a look. “You know they are. One hundred percent homegrown fat bags here. That do nothing for you.”

“Yes, sadly. They are fun though, havin’ a ball just bouncin’ down the street.” 

Looking down fondly at her chest, “Yeah, they like to party.” She giggles and then looks back up, her mood suddenly shifting. She rests her head against the back of the futon, looking up.  

“I miss you.”

She looks down at her phone trying to make out the time but the numbers are all blurry and jumbled. She sighs. 

A heavy wind whips through the browning trees outside making the crispy leaves chatter. “I miss you too.”

“It hurts so much, some days I feel like it takes everything I have not to just- ”

There’s an abrupt, high pitched scream. She wakes with a start, slouched on the futon, laptop on her chest, Lady sitting to her right staring at her. The kettle is whistling fervently. She goes to turn the kettle off, feeling hungover. Her hand sleepily reaches for an Earl Grey tea bag from the glass jar next to the stove and rips open the wrapper. She always reads the daily inspirational note on the little paper tag at the end of the string, however cheesy. “Nice talking with you.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head, is she still dreaming? She looks back at the little paper. “Talk nicely to yourself.” A bit foggy from her nap it seems. She places the tea bag into her Crazy Cat Lady mug and pours the steaming water over it carefully, drags herself back to the futon and opens her laptop once more. There’s a blank page other than these words she does not remember writing.

“The time is right, now.”

She looks out at the trees, they rustle knowingly. She looks back at the screen, the wall has lifted and it all begins to flow.