Time

I sat for a time watching the black hands roam the face of the clock, hoping for the second or minute hand, to jump from sheer boredom. I sometimes believe we do not pay enough attention to time. It is all we have that’s worth anything, despite the lust for money and accrual of things worth thousands, millions, but only if we can find someone that agrees with our assessment of their worth.

But time! Ah, time is an entirely different matter. Our lives are ruled by it. We buy it from others, exchange a piece of ourselves for it, a house, car, property. We will go in debt to keep what we so readily waste, when we feel it slipping away. 

As I watch the hands follow the route prescribed, I can’t help but feel it has gained the advantage. It has bested us at our own game, and yet it doesn’t revel in the win or pity us in our loss. It is because it simply does not care, for there is nothing for it to look forward to itself, but ceasing to function, and either be rejuvenated, or discarded. Living in an age of consumerism, the likelihood of its rejuvenation, unless it is considered uniquely unique, is minimal. It’s precision gears will lay along side an aluminum beer can or a plastic straw, that will remain on earth longer than the God we pay allegiance to.

And yet, as valuable as time is, it is most often worth nothing, as it has to have relevance to have value. Economics 101 has taught us even those who mistrust valuation graphs or the evangelical forecasters of our monetary fate, the value of life is regulated on a scale according to statistics by age, race, vocation, and in some cases life style. So we have been valued by the descendants of those thrown from the biblical renderings of a book, for monetary trading in the halls of eternity, hoping to make a quick turnaround on a drachma, diamond, silver, even myrrh, during the season. There is a price placed on death.

I sit watching as the hands of time call, but I refuse to answer until it is my turn. To volunteer I hear is not only risky, but stupid, as we are on a wheel propelled by luck and gravity. Should either fail, it will no longer matter if we have next months’ rent, or invested wisely in the stock market. My father is convinced that April 1^st is synonymous with evil, the devil, and the lords of Wall Street that perpetuate the obsession with wealth, as charity and compassion are no longer in vogue. I believe he enjoys hiding from reality.

I myself am prone to a more practical sense of propriety when it comes to chivalry, Valentine’s Day, Birthdays, Anniversaries, and of course weddings. Each carries with it an expectation that resembles the spirit of the Statue of Liberty, given in recognition of cooperation between two nations. But with the placing of a simple plaque embracing the ideals of generations of hope, that life will get better, even in the face of poverty and exploitation. We have angered the New Gods of Industry and Finance by expecting a share in that promise; our arrogance shall not go unnoticed.

“The ungrateful masses have gone too far this time.” The words on the plaque we are told are misinterpreted, misconstrued by the needy who wish to take advantage of a generous system that wills the young to die in place of the old, before they have a chance to challenge the madness.

I bring my father the rent each and every month, for the home that I borrow from him. The payment is due on the first of every month, and is delivered by me personally on the second, despite lengthy sermons advocating for adherence to contracts and one’s word. I do it intentionally as it irritates his sense of business etiquette, and provides me with an inner satisfaction having remained within the three-day time allowance and default clause, and yet showing a certain disregard that I exhibit for the situation.

It was this arrangement that began the problem between my landlord and myself.  He cannot understand my reticence to an obligation that really has no more value than we attribute to it. I on the other hand have come to see the late discharge of duty as a symbolic revolutionary act that provides me a certain satisfaction. 

April fools day offers a possibility that in most months is not available, as its association with the 1^st day of the month is unique in most instances. It is also the prelude to my fathers birthday, which by family tradition is required to be formally celebrated at his home, the evening of the 2nd. 

I have decided in the spirit of the day, to alter the time and place to see if my effort would be appreciated for what it was, acceptance of the fact that life when calculated by the calendar has little more authority on a particular day than it had on the previous or the subsequent day.

I arrived at the house at 6 O’clock, the prescribed hour, bearing gifts as was expected. I rang the bell, knowing his housekeeper would be off, it being the day prior to the big day, and she would be engaged preparing for the big day.

My father has an aversion to April in general, the first in particular. I believe he recognizes that with each passing tick of the clock, page of the calendar, he is only heart beats from the conceivable end. He barricades himself with solitude, preferring to be alone in his demented notion the following day will show his clock missing incalcitrant minutes and hours of another hard-fought year.  

He answered the door personally and to his surprise I stood arms loaded with mostly individually wrapped socks, tie clips, twin poker chips baring his logo, a black cat, and a half-drunk bottle of white wine. He was stunned of course realizing I was either a day early or possibly a day late. His demeanor changed, his confusion causing a reddish glow to inhabit his face.  I had succeeded if nothing else, in rearranging his idealism, that one can never afford to make a mistake.

He of course could not allow me the satisfaction of catching him unprepared, as that would show a weakness in his ability to plan for perfection and carry it out. I wished him a happy birthday, placed the presents on the hall table and asked politely as I could manage, “Has the dinner been postponed? Are you ill? Should I be concerned? Are your affairs in order?” As the questions began to pile up like ashes from a spent bonfire, he began to take on the look of distress. 

I helped him to his chair. His breathing had grown noticeably shallow and rapid. He began to perspire as though the room temperature had risen to an uncomfortable level. He had at this moment failed to answer any of my questions. I asked if I should call his physician. 

He said nothing for the longest time, and then asked what month it was. I replied, "April." He then asked what day it was. I replied, "April second." He began to look as though his faculties were abandoning him. His normal calm and demanding countenance was replaced with the inquisitive glances of someone who has forgotten where he lived. “Are you sure?” he inquired as if asking if he was still of this life. 

“Quite," I responded, placing my watch before him. A watch he’d given me several years previously after proclaiming it was a marvel of technology, date, time, even an alarm that played the stars and stripes. The date I had changed to facilitate the subterfuge. 

The longer I watched the more agitated he became until he asked If I could help him to his room. I obliged his request and got him planted in his bed, turned out the lights, and prepared, with a great sense of satisfaction, to leave.

As I got in my car, I thought I saw his face in the upstairs window, but that couldn’t be as I just put him in bed, his weakened state having driven him to the confines of the blankets.

As I reached the end of the drive and turned onto the road, two cars, one ahead and one behind, forced me to stop. They were police vehicles. As they approached the car, they told me to get out as I was under arrest for burglary and assault of the man who lived in the house at the end of the drive. They claimed he’d called the station to alert them to the burglary that was being conducted at his home.

I was taken to the police station where I was given my one call. I called my father of course, hoping to clear up this obvious mistake.  When I explained where I was and the need for him to explain to the police who I was, he hung up.

The patrolman who had brought me to the station handed me a note, he said dictated to the officer at the front desk.  The card inside said simply, “When you come tomorrow for dinner, please remember to bring the rent check. I’m a bit shy this month.”