Temporal Tempest

Nothing happens in town before 7:53am.

Until then the good citizens wait, sip their second or third cup of coffee, tighten shoelaces one more time, slick down Skip’s cowlick yet again, frown at Bobby as he slurps the sugared milk from the bottom of his cereal bowl.

At 7:53 Ciril Presicz, CPA and Town Treasurer, who is so accurate one could, and many do, set their watch by him, passes by the First Marrien Bank. Up until this moment, the clock, perched on the bank’s facade, has confidently announced that the current temperature is 73 degrees Fahrenheit. Then shamefully leaves thirty seconds of dead space, before returning to the temperature.

As soon as Ciril passes, the clock sighs with relief and lets the whole town know that the day has started. Instantly school buses pick children from their assigned corners. Grandfathers serving as crossing guards safely usher stragglers across the street. Bank tellers, mail carriers, paperboys, teachers, and the milkman all start their day, while Ciril walks on at the same pace, reaching his office at exactly 7:59, in time to open his business for business.

Precisely at 16:31, Ciril leaves his office, crosses the street, and enters Mo’s restaurant. He smiles and nods at Marcie, the waitresses, and sits at his table in the back. He orders his usual dinner of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, washes this down with a Pepsi, never Coke, and follows it with a slice of homemade apple pie. He pays the exact cost of his meal, including a twenty-five percent tip and leaves.

At 17:48 he enters Town Hall, turns on the lights in the conference room, and distributes the minutes from yesterday’s meeting. He ensures that the pitchers and glasses are clean and filled with fresh water. Then he sits in his usual seat, reviews his notes, and compares them with the minutes from the day before.

The town council meets from 18:00 till 22:00 five days a week. At exactly 22:32 after leaving the minutes on the mayor’s secretary’s desk, turning off all the lights, ensuring nobody is left in the building, he locks up. Ciril passes the bank on his way home, allowing the bank clock to double check its accuracy and shut down for the night. As does the rest of the town.

Although the weatherman comments on a very localized storm that is building over the town and suggests that people carry an umbrella, just in case, the meteorologist cannot explain the cause of the impending weather change.

Unbeknownst to Ciril time is forming a wrinkle. Tonight the council meeting ends a tad early. Follows his routine, he secures Town Hall at 21:17. A full hour and fifteen minutes ahead of time. As Ciril walks home and passes the bank, the clock gasps, assuming it is the one at fault. Hoping nobody notices its lapse, it resets itself before retiring for the night. Briefly it ponders if something else is the cause, but not having fingers, it can’t put one on the problem.

The town is now seriously out of step and hurries to catch up. Both traffic lights switch to their nighttime amber pattern, the washers and driers in the laundromat stop mid cycle, the movie theater halts the show in the middle of the third reel and turns off the lights. Teenagers protest but hurry home, nonetheless. Television stations skip their ten o’clock show and switch to the empty desk of the eleven o’clock news.

Ciril, unaware of the wrinkle he may or may not have created, continues toward home at his usual unhurried but steady pace, which takes him to his front door in 7 minutes, 6 seconds.

The wind picks up. Rain pours.

“Psst.” Not being used to being addressed on the street, and surely not at this time, it takes Ciril seven and a half seconds before he realizes that someone is trying to get his attention. Among the hydrangeas in Mrs. Flowers’ front yard is a … person. A person of the female persuasion, barely covered by pale blue blossoms. She’s lovely, though windblown.

“Ma’am?” He clears his throat as he is not used to addressing scantily clad women. “Are you speaking to me?” He averts his eyes – mostly - from the shapely figure and offers her his umbrella. With the speed of light, a hand clasps around his wrist and hauls him into the hydrangeas.

“Now, listen. And listen closely.” The enticing young lady is growing before his eyes. The cast of her eyes is ageless. She could have been molded from or been the model for Greek and Roman statues. Her voice reaches into infinity.

“Look at what you’ve done!” 

Slowly Ciril looks away from the imposing figure. Though the storm is raging all around, a window onto the vastness of eternity shows chaos. Up is sideways, hot is green. Otherworldly creatures are curling over water. Dinosaurs play keep-away with Pluto. Trolls game on an I-pad. Rockettes balance on a moonbeam. Fraternity pledges rush to catch a shooting star. A big white rabbit and a Chesire grin play darts with lightning bolts. But Ciril’s eyes can’t look away from the unicorns that skip rope with their rainbows. He hears leprechauns curse up a storm and curse themselves when they must brave the gale to retrieve their gold coins.

“You see now?”

“No,” Ciril confesses. “This doesn’t add up.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t see how I’m to blame.”

“What time is it?” The woman demands.

“Time? Well, I was 3 point 4 minutes away from my home, so it must be 22: 36 point 6.” He doesn’t wear a watch, doesn’t need one. He’s always exactly on time.

“Try 21:21.” The huff ruffles Ciril’s hair.

“Preposterous!” he steps away, needing to wash his hands off the problem. “I was walking home when you rudely waylaid me into Mrs. Flowers’ yard. That was at 22: 36 point 4 or 5.” He’d give the lady the difference in the decimal. “Don’t you dare question me!” Ciril shouts over the raging storm, trying anger and posturing to overcome the unfamiliar glimmer of self-doubt.

“Oh, no!” The Athena or Juno laughs, but without mirth. “You made the mess. You fix it.”

Feeling the bands, the inherent limits of time, tightening around him, he frowns up at the Amazon, who seems to still be growing. “Who are you?”

“I am Time.” The storm calms to a steady downpour. “I will no longer tolerate being upstaged by you. You will respect me, will no longer ignore me, or think you can best and control me. Do you understand?”

Ciril, though cringing and gasping for breath at the stricture, has to be honest. He does not know how else to respond. “No, I don’t understand. I have my routines. I know the limits of time and have allocated specific amounts of the commodity to each of my activities. How am I in the wrong?”

“You, self-righteous asshat,” The sneer thunders through eternity and Ciril’s head. “Do not wear a watch. You, robot, do not consult time pieces, but allow time pieces to consult you. You, maggot, have presumed to be me! Just for that infraction I should, and will in time, punish you.” Her smile and chuckle hold no warmth, no joy, merely a promise.

“Until then, you will vary your routines, take on extra work or leave early. You will linger over dinner, take in a movie and.” The voice becomes sultry as the hydrangea-clad, voluptuous young woman returns. “And” she sighs, “You will become my lover, savoring every second of me. Who, I ask, will be a better distraction from your rigidly timed routine, but me?”

Ciril, a man, a mere mortal, does not see the calculation, the age-old seduction in her eyes when he sighs with acceptance.

It takes the town five minutes at most to realize that Ciril is no longer controlling Time. DMV employees call the next customer to their window when they damn well want to. Teachers return grades on their schedule. The milk may or may not be fresh when it is placed on the doorstep. The mail will be delivered today or another day. School bus drivers change their route without notice and leave little Skip standing on the corner, cowlick at attention.

But Ciril is unaware. His one true love, the logical and inevitable progression of Time is no longer his to manage. Time is now his ever mercurial, demanding Mistress, the one to deliciously control him. For their first anniversary, Time gives Ciril a watch. One that ticks to its own beat.