The Clock Key

Had I known I was about to destroy the world, I would have kept my glasses on. The lady working the coffee shop cash register, Rebecca, wore a low-cut blouse. I’ve come here every Thursday morning for the last five years and have never seen her display cleavage. She has changed hair styles, necklaces, and lipstick, but her taste in shirts has been consistent. To avoid the temptation of a subtle glance, or God forbid outright staring, I removed my glasses and slipped them into my jacket pocket.

“Good morning, Fezziwig,” Rebecca said as I approached the counter. “How is the real estate business these days?”

I'm not in the real estate business. I've lied several times to Rebecca to appear more interesting. I fix computers and own a ferret.  “It’s a hot market out there,” I replied. “But homes aren’t selling as fast as those hot cross buns.” I tapped the display case and forced an outward chuckle, but inside I was mentally karate-chopping my brain for another foolish comment.

I heard Rebecca laugh, but my vision was too soft and fuzzy to verify the authenticity of her face. I turned towards a series of silver dessert trays on the counter and grabbed a polka-dot-looking cookie.  

“The usual for you then,” Rebecca said. “One cookie and a small decaf coffee.”

I weaved through the busy dining area and took my Thursday food and drink ritual to a dimly lit corner booth. The golden rays of morning sunshine flooded through the century-old storefront window, bathing the hardwood floor in natural light, and infusing early morning conversations with warmth. The sidewalk outside was already swarming with bodies like mindless worker ants foraging the jungle to appease their queen.

I ran my fingers over the bumpy surface of the cookie as if reading braille that described its moist and chewy inside. When my teeth sank into the treat, I immediately sensed something was wrong. First, my tastebuds registered cinnamon, then a hint of nutmeg. When the mushy texture and tangy raisin flavor appeared, my throat immediately initiated the abort sequence. I gagged partially digested chunks of cookie onto the table.

The world snapped back into focus as I retrieved the glasses from my jacket pocket. The dismembered remains of an imposter lay on the table. The vilest of all the confectionaries. The chameleon of the bakery, camouflaged among the edible baked goods.

I grabbed an oatmeal raisin cookie instead of my usual chocolate chip. A classic case of mistaken identity.

I scraped my tongue with a napkin, making noises like a cow being prodded with a red-hot branding iron. My mouth was raw by the time I noticed the chatter inside the coffee shop had stopped. I turned toward the other tables and found a dozen people frozen in place, mugs suspended between lips and thumbs in mid-text petrified over phones. It was like a wax museum had perfectly captured the morning routine of the caffeine junkie.

The sound of crackling electricity cut the silence and a large circle of dull blue light materialized nearby. A large figure in a dark hooded cloak stepped through the portal and slowly walked towards me. Its head was mere inches from the ceiling and the weight of its footsteps sent shockwaves through the hardwood floor, vibrating up my leg.

“Fezziwig O’Whelan,” the mysterious stranger called, its arms reached up and pulled back the hood. “We screwed up.”

The face was that of a sloth: small, round, furry, and undeniably cute. Its eyes were squinted, giving the impression it was either sleepy or high. The corners of its mouth were turned up, suggesting it was happy or high.

Visions from every movie and TV show I had watched about aliens started to resurface. “Please don’t anal probe me,” I yelled to the interdimensional being.

“Dude, what the hell?” the sloth replied in a childlike voice. “The very fabric of space and time is in jeopardy, and you’re worried about your rectum?”

“Who are you?” I asked, quivering, and crawling backward in the booth.

“Call me Mr. Finnster. I’m a guardian angel of sorts, I watch over you and make sure you stick to the plan.”

I had always envisioned guardian angels as beautiful women in white dresses with auras and wings. Not a sluggish mammal in a gigantic trench coat. “Plan? What are you talking about?”

“Your Thursday morning chocolate chip cookie,” Mr. Finnster said. “Believe it or not, this simple routine prevents the destruction of the world. Think of it like winding an old clock, if you don’t perform the task, time will stop. That’s why you’re called the Clock Key. Our previous Clock Key served for more than four decades and was honorably discharged five years ago. You were then chosen at random by the Devine and implanted with a habitual activity. Eating the chocolate chip cookie is the pendulum that keeps our planet ticking.”

Mr. Finnster bent down and eased into the booth; its huge legs crammed against the bottom of the table. Three long, narrow hooks extended from the cloak sleeve, and began picking at the crumbled oatmeal raisin cookie.

“Tastes pretty good,” he said. “What a shame it’s responsible for the end of the world.”

“Wait a minute,” I protested. “If you’re this amazing guardian angel that’s supposed to make sure I eat the proper cookie, what the hell happened?”

Mr. Finnster paused, then brought his claws down on the table rhythmically, one at a time, as a sign of annoyance. “I took a couple of days off to watch the World Cup. I really didn’t think a slight glimpse of Rebecca’s twin peaks would be enough to turn you into Stevie Wonder.”

I scoffed at the remark and jerked my head towards the storefront. A crowd of businesspeople were frozen on the sidewalk, basking in the morning sun that hadn’t budged an inch. “Is there any way to fix this?” I asked reluctantly.

“Yes, I can rewind time to just before you purchased this cookie,” Mr. Finnster explained. “However, buying the right cookie isn’t going to be enough. To jumpstart the timeline, we’ll need a chemical reaction that generates a spark inside you.”

“Please tell me I don’t have to shove batteries up my ass.”

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Mr. Finnster yelled. “A kiss you idiot. You need to kiss Rebecca. The release of dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin should generate the required energy.”

A feeling of dread washed over my body, weighing me down like a suit of armor. “Kiss her? I can barely even talk to her without looking like an idiot.”

“You had better figure it out quick,” Mr. Finnster said. “We have only a few chances to fix this mess, or the damage becomes irreversible.”

Poof.

“Good morning, Fezziwig. How is the real estate business these days?”

I was suddenly at the coffee shop counter in front of Rebecca. The muffled conversations of customers had resumed, accompanied by the sounds of jazz music in the background. I shook my head as if that might somehow jolt the neurons in my brain into making sense of this situation. When I steadied, my eyes connected directly with Rebecca’s chest. Like a picturesque sunset over the mountains, the heavenly sight held my gaze, I couldn’t look away.

“Could you be any more disrespectful?” Rebecca barked.

My head shot up and my eyes widened, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. I panicked, words became stuck in my throat, leaving me only able to make kissy lips at her.

I watched in slow motion as Rebecca’s hand drew back and then unleashed a resounding slap across my face. The thwack echoed off the weathered brick walls and then there was silence. Once again, everyone in the coffee shop was frozen in place.

“Nicely done dipshit,” Mr. Finnster called from behind me. “What are you, 12 years old?”

I turned to face the mammoth sloth, his smile contrasting sharply with the seriousness in his voice. “I’ve never been good at talking to girls,” I confessed.

Mr. Finnster shook his head in disappointment. “Again!”

Poof.

“Good morning, Fezziwig. How is the real estate business these days?”

I immediately raised my eyes to the ceiling and ignored her question. “What are the chances of me getting a kiss?” I asked sheepishly. In my peripheral vision, I noticed a glimmer of interest on her face. However, I panicked. “A copy of Kiss’s 1976 album Destroyer. Any chance you could get me a copy?”

“Sorry, I’m fresh out,” Rebecca said, her expression shifting from confusion to perplexity. “The usual for you then, one cookie and a small decaf coffee.”

Immediately after those words escaped her mouth, Rebecca’s body froze, and the coffee shop plunged into another eerie silence. Mr. Finnster hung upside down from a ceiling joist, clawing at a glass sugar shaker resting between two motionless women.

“If you don’t grow a set of balls, I’m going to shove this up your ass,” he yelled.

Poof.

“Good morning, Fezziwig. How is the real estate business these days?”

Maybe it was the impending destruction of Earth or the serious threat to my buttocks, but a surge of confidence coursed through me. I looked Rebecca in the eyes and spilled my guts. “I’m not a real estate agent, I don’t drive a Ferrari, and I don’t have a summer cabin by the lake. I’ve lied about almost everything because I’m just a boring guy and you’re so beautiful. I wanted you to think I was interesting. But now the fate of the world hangs on this very moment. I’m trapped in a slight time loop because I accidentally grabbed the wrong cookie this morning. A giant sloth in a trench coat came out of a portal and told me that I was the chosen one and that time and space depended on me eating a chocolate chip cookie every Thursday. Now the only way to jumpstart the proper flow of time is a kiss from you.”

Rebecca’s eyes were wide, her mouth gaping in disbelief. After a brief stare-down, she raised her hands and I braced myself for another slap to the face. Instead, Rebecca's delicate fingers gently caressed my cheeks as she leaned in, pressing her lips to mine.

Almost immediately, a trio of feel-good hormones flooded my circulatory system. Warmth and tingling erupted in my head, cascading down my body like a waterfall. Energy radiated outward, spreading through the coffee shop and into the bustling streets.

“The usual for you then,” Rebecca said. “One chocolate chip cookie and a small decaf coffee.”

“Why on earth did you actually kiss me?” I asked, fighting the light, airy feeling of intoxication.

"It’s very flattering you’d make up a story like that just to get a kiss. But honestly, my manager bet me a hundred bucks that I couldn't smooch with one of the regulars at the cash register. Thanks, Fezziwig, you just won me the bet.”

I took my food and drink to the corner booth with no signs of a giant sloth or disruption in the flow of time. However, my sanity felt just as fragile as the chocolate chip cookie crumbling in my mouth.