Late Again

Our church has a large clock which sits on the Spanish tiled roof. Every hour it chimes reminding us of a conclusion of an hour. It calls to those in public places who walk and speed up as soon as it hits the hour confirming that an hour has passed by. Traffic and wonderers all pick up their steps as soon as the clock strikes in honor of an end of an hour.

Verily, verily the founder of Time and the movements of earths, tells us, humanoids, that yet another moment of accomplishment has concluded. An hour has passed us by. We were productive or we were not, it all happens at the strike of an hour.

Our town is small. A handful of supermarkets here and there. A post office. A clinic led by a large imposing hospital. A library with books full of unfounded knowledge. Stores where clothes are sold. A small airport with planes which seem too new to be on the airstrip which had a gliding mirage with ancient pride and unknown secrets. Lateral to all this human built stagnant history, is the sea which paves it’s way with waves that slowly chime in and out of the edge of the sands of time.

Time had made it’s mark, it had signage evidence, which should be visible in this ocean but is not. Not far from the ocean is a mall which is decorated with old rustic iron and steel gates which are draped with large imposing clocks. These clocks also chime loudly as the hour concludes day and night. Schools were littered around neighborhoods with boys, girls and their parents walking dogs to the park, made the city look and sound like a petite dollhouse. Tall buildings and factories live side by side with museums also featuring the history of time. In a town filled with many men and women who worked a lot, all go in and out like clock work to be productive and make products for usage by town dwellers and shoppers who in some cases imported goods from this town filled with clocks.

It was with amazement then when one day in a lazy solemn day clocks in town just stopped. No long breaths of ringing clocks indicating the conclusion of an hour were heard. For once everyone stopped hearing others think. Voices had to be used.

“Who has the time?”

”Hoe last is dat?”

“What time is it?”

Needed a response?

“Do you have the time?”

Response

”Guess what? Our clock stopped working. I have no idea what time it is.”

Time stood still had a new meaning.

Yet the sun rose and set the same way as it did all the other days when we heard the chimes of the clocks in town.

Could we guess what time it was? Was our internal clock reliable enough to keep order in our town? Will employers fire late comers?

”What tine is it?”

”I don’t know it looks like ten o clock!”

“Well it’s ten o clock then.”

We all assumed to be right. We had to develop a rhythm which suited us all. Maybe if we designated some who warned us of the time by choosing a few age groups to represent the time for all to see in the AM. So in the morning if one saw a young girl dressed in black standing in the town center the time will be seven o‘clock

An older girl standing next to the traffic light dressed in black, the time will be eight o’clock

A woman in her thirties dressed in a black jogging outfit standing in the city park, the time will be nine o’clock

A middle aged woman dressed in black standing holding a black purse standing next to a bus stop the time will be ten o’clock

After noon time, will be indicated by an overweight man dressed in all white standing next to a coffee shop, will indicate that the time will be one o’clock. A businessman wearing a white suit standing next to a church downtown, the tine will be two o’clock and so on and so on.

There would be no reason to call overseas to check and time managers to ask what time it was and do the math to figure out the local time. Suddenly it was well organized and every street corner had time machines dressed in black and others dressed in white for the afternoon

”When will I see you again?”

”When the business man in a white suit stands next to the church downtown. I will be the one in a red car.”

So a pregnant woman wondered with a bag full of her newborn’s clothes wondered when to rush to the emergency room, if she felt what she thought was a birth.

“The guy is wearing a white pair of jeans and a t shirt, it must be four pm ish

so the fastest route at this hour would be all around Spanner road down to the highway. Watch out for your water not to break while you are en route! -

a sign on the Highway warned!

It is time for prayers ladies and gentlemen. I doubt if God is up at this hour. The hour is an unGodly hour. Let us pray anyway.

”We can perform the surgery in-spite of our challenges. We will have to time everything. Maybe we need a group of gentlemen in white suits to act out the time and minutes for us so that we do not keep our patients under anesthesia longer than necessary. What do you all say? “

I bet the seasons will be easier to predict than time. How will we know when the winter folds?

Maybe we can count on the sound of the rain when it rains or how long it rains. If it rains all day it will mean that summer is near. That sounds right!

Baking will be a seamless art. We won’t have to open our ovens to check if the meats and poultry are cooked clear. We will trust our ovens to know how much heat is bedded and for how much amount of time the oven need to sizzle our meats.

Hairstylists will by memory gage how long to leave relaxers on their patron’s hairs. As soon as the scalp turns reddish that should do it! Later slap on a handful of olive oil and tie with a scarf and take two aspirins for hair growth.

The President expected chaos. There were no riots. Everyone counted on the black clothed stooges and the white clothed phantoms to tell what time it was.

Angry and feeling rejected he attempted to manually set the time for the lights to be on or off in town, that way he could have control. Others could count on him in his pajamas turning the lights off in his time.

“Good night good citizens, lights out!”