Fate—Right on Time

FATE—RIGHT ON TIME

Charlotte

So once, I missed a plane that crashed. And then I missed a train that derailed. I once had to cancel a trip to Florida during spring break because I wasn’t finished a paper that was already late (big surprise). The resort that we were supposed to stay at ended up being in the direct path of a category three hurricane. All my friends were okay, but not one of them has been back to Florida since.  

I do legitimately struggle wth the concept of time. I had a friend who is on “island time” and even she gets frustrated at my tardiness. As hard as I try, I can never seem to be on time. Forget about early! My mother says that the only time I’ve ever been early was the day I was born.

But it’s becoming a problem for me now. It’s Chris, my partner. He’s a stickler for promptness. The earlier the better is his motto. He reminds me regularly that people who are chronically late are disrespectful, and show contempt for others.  

“I try!” I’ll whine.

“Try harder,” he’ll say.

Sometimes, when we’re really going at it, I’ll bring up the fact that he would never have met me if I hadn’t been late for a seminar he had been presenting. I had to sit right up front, because it was the only seat left in the meeting room. That’s where we met after the presentation, and have been together ever since. Up until now, he has always proclaimed that it was the best day of his life. But I’m afraid that someday he’ll finally come to the realization that it was not the banner day he proclaims; instead he’ll realize that it is the source of most of his angst.

Chris

I’m almost pathological in my need to be early. The earlier, the better. To me, only being on time is the same as being late. I’m pretty sure it stems from an event from my childhood.  

I was eleven at the time, and it was summer vacation. I was riding my bike wth my buddies, and we’d gone way out of our neighbourhood, something we all knew was against the rules. But we were going to find a haunted house my older brother, Jason, had told us about. I remember that I was a bit skeptical—how could there be a haunted house that my friends and I didn’t know about it? It seemed unlikely. So Jeremy, Mateo and I peddled way out into the rural area outside our town. We eventually found the house, and it did look haunted, so we decided to explore. I don’t know what we expected, but while scary, it wasn’t haunted. At least not as far as we were concerned.  

We’d set out to find the house right after dinner. The rule at our house, and probably for every kid in the neighbourhood, was be home when the streetlights come on. But, on that summer day, time got away from us. It was almost dark when we realized that we were gong to be super late getting home. And that meant trouble. Maybe even being grounded. This was before the advent of cell phones for all kids, and there was no way to let my parents know that where we were. We were free-range kids. But my mom was a worrier, and always went to the worse-case scenario first. She panicked when I didn’t show up on time, and was imagining me dead in a ditch or abducted by a pedophile. I guess we could have asked to use the phone at one of the farms that we passed, but we didn’t. We were eleven. Besides, stranger danger, right?

We booked it home, and it was full dark when I peddled into our driveway. This was early summer, just after the solstice, so it was light until almost nine o’clock at night. By the time I got home it had to be around ten o’clock, and the streetlights had been on for at least an hour. The first thing that I noticed, was that my dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway. The second was that there was a police cruiser parked in his spot.

It turned out that my dad had gone out looking for us. Jeremy and Mateo’s parents were out there as well. But, instead of finding us, my dad got into a car crash. I don’t think that I ever knew the exact circumstances—something about a drunk driver crossing over the line, and a head-on crash. My dad was hurt pretty badly. The cascading events following the crash were catastrophic. And all my fault.

Dad’s recovery was slow and painful. His company laid him off. He started drinking. My mom had to go to find a job. We lost our house and had to move. I had to change schools. Everyone’s lives had been turned up-side-down. Because I had been late.

So, now, I’m always early. I arrive at the airport before the gate even opens. I’m always front of the line at Costco before it opens. I catch the first bus into work in the morning.  Time-watching is paramount in my mind, always, and almost defines who I am. And I’ve always been okay with that. Until I met Charlotte—funny, smart, sweet, tardy Charlotte. Love of my life, bane of my existence.

Dr. Winters

Dr. Winters looks at the autobiographies she’d asked her two newest clients to write. This is not going to be easy.

“So, let me get this straight. Charlotte, you are always late, and while not intentional, you feel that it has been lucky for you?”

Charlotte smiles. “I do.”

“And, Chris, you believe that if you’re late, bad things will happen. Correct?”

He nods his head, saying nothing.

“Okay.” Dr. Winters looks down at her notepad. She’s a couples therapist, and Charlotte and Chris have sought her out.  Their problem? They are at opposite ends of the time prioritization spectrum. Chris is obsessively early, Charlotte is chronically late. And this huge difference in each person’s concept of time is ruining their relationship. She sighs inwardly. “Let’s consider the reasons each of you have for your time management choices.” She looks at each in turn. “Charlotte,” she says, “You go first.”

Charlotte takes a deep breath before she starts. “I feel safe being late. I’m never the first person anywhere, usually the last, but all my friends and family know what to expect from me, so it’s no big deal.” She pauses, still looking at Dr. Winters. “Except with Chris. It drives him crazy.” She sneaks a glance his way.

“You mentioned a number of close calls that you’ve had where you feel if you hadn’t been late, you might have been injured or even killed.”

Charlotte nods again. “That’s right. I do truly believe that my lateness has saved my life.” She looks at Chris. “I know Chris believes that timeliness is next to godliness, but I don’t. I can’t. What if the fates are waiting for me to be early, so that they can strike me dead? I’ve cheated death three times, and each time because I was running late.”

Dr. Winters considers. “But you made it here on time today.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes. “Chris told me the appointment was at six, not five. And he harangued me the entire time I was getting ready, telling me that we’d miss the appointment, that we’d have to pay for a no-show, that I knew about the appointment, but still chose to be late.” She sighs. “The usual.”

Dr. Winters turns to Chris. “Is that true?”

Chris nods his head. “It is.”

“Do you see the deception in your methods?”

He nods his head again. “But in my defence, we would have missed this appointment if I had let Charlotte know the correct time of the appointment, and everyone’s time would have been wasted because we would have been forty minutes late.”

Dr. Winters looks at Charlotte.

“It’s true,” she says. “But I still feel as if I’ve been tricked.”

Dr. Winters looks back to Chris. “And Chris, what time would you have wanted to arrive for this appointment if you were alone?”

He considers for a moment. “Maybe around four o’clock.”

Dr. Winters looks at him, her brow furrowing. “That’s an entire hour early, Chris. These sessions are only fifty minutes long, so you would have been waiting longer than the appointment would have taken. Why?”

Chris looks off. “Okay, it takes me thirty minutes to get here, and I leave at ten after four. That gives me a ten minute grace period before the appointment. But let’s say, I don’t know, the subway breaks down, or I get stuck in traffic because there’s a huge pile up. Then I’m late, and you’re probably wondering where I am because I am never late. But because I left early, there’s no problem, I have a safety buffer. I get here on time regardless of the conditions I face.” He looked pointedly at Dr. Winters. “I’m willing to be early if it means that no one is going to be left worrying about where I am. Or gets hurt, if I’m not on time.”

Dr. Winters sneaks a look at her watch. “Okay, our time’s almost up for today. I’ve got some homework for you.” She pauses, looking at her notes. “Before next week’s appointment, I want the two of you to meet some where—it doesn’t matter where, but you both have to be exactly on time—not late, not early. On time. I’m going to suggest that you meet after work, an a place where you can see each other arriving. Plus, I’m going to suggest that you have some sort of evidence that you were on time. In this case a subway transfer with the time stamped on it. Not for the other person, but as personal proof so that you know that you made the effort to be on time.”

Both Charolette and Chris look confused.  

Dr. Winters continues. “A transfer so that you, Chris, will not arrive too early, and wait for Charlotte. And Charlotte, the transfer will make it so that you have to manage your time in such a way as to ensure that you are right on time.” She looked from one to the other. “Any questions?’

Both Charlotte and Chris shake their heads no.

On the way home they decide to do their “homework” the very next day—they will meet outside the art gallery, a location that is about half way between their respective workplaces. Chris will arrive on the north-bound train, and Charlotte will arrive on the south bound train. They will each exit from different doors, and meet in front of the clock tower—not too early, and not too late—but at six o’clock, sharp.

*****

The next afternoon arrives. Charlotte leaves work on time—a rare occurrence for her. She has to take a bus, then the subway. The ride should take half an hour. By leaving promptly at 5:30 p.m. she will arrive exactly on time. She thinks about stopping to get a coffee, but poo poos the idea—she can’t risk being late.

Chris knows that the ride to the art gallery will take him twenty-three minutes. He fights the urge to rush and catch an earlier bus, jar in case. That is exactly what he isn’t supposed to do. He’s timed all of his connections so that he will arrive precisely at six o’clock. Being early is not an option. He has to be on time.

Each person arrives at the art gallery at the appointed time, paper transfers held tightly in hands. Smiles shine—for their personal achievements, but also in the knowledge that the other person cares enough about them to make the effort to be on time, to try and change for them, to make their homework assignment a success.

They walk towards each other and meet right at the clock tower, almost perfectly choreographed. Each is laughing and smiling, hugging the other tightly. They are so wrapped up in each other that neither hears the cracking sound coming from above.

*****

Dr. Winters was just finishing up her day. Before she leaves the office, she checks her newsfeeds—mostly for traffic updates, but she tends to scan the headlines. One, in particular catches her attention.

Two people were killed today in a freak accident at the Metropolitan Art Gallery, when the bell tower in front of the gallery collapsed, killing both instantly. Officials say that the clock tower was scheduled to undergo a major renovation starting next week.  

Witnesses at the scene described the scene as horrific.

“I saw the whole thing,” said one witness. “If the guy had been a little earlier, or the girl a little later, they wouldn’t have been standing right under the tower when it came down. It was awful.”

The two people have been identified as Charlotte Jenkinson, 24, and Christopher Eldridge, 27. Family members confirmed that the pair has been dating for over a year. It is unknown at this time whether charges will be laid. The investigation continues.

Dr. Winter blinks a couple of times and rereads the article, stunned. She sits back in her chair before rereading the article for a third time.

“Fate is certainly resourceful,” she whispers to herself sadly.