A Timed Tale

Dr. Brandt had overslept.

Evanhour Brandt had not heard the alarm clock despite sleeping in a room the size of a walk-in closet. With all the variations of alarm devices he’d slept beside, this had never happened. Whether Evanhour should thank his grandfather’s Westclox, a rare WW2 commodity, the chronograph Omega Mother and Father splurged on for graduation, or the indefatigable Timex secured on sturdy, metal nubs on the night table, Evanhour had never been late for anything. Not lectures, dates with his then-girlfriend, or appointments with his now-wife. Most adamantly, not to his dust-free cubicle sequestered on the rooftop of The Briskane Weather Bureau.

“Throwing out an old Ella tune for you jazz lovers out there. Here’s “We’re Having a Heatwave!” Jukebox Jeff announced.

It had gotten so Evanhour didn’t require an external device to rouse him. Between middle age, parenthood, and years under the weight of societal responsibility, “Ev,” as Meg preferred, had developed a finely tuned and fail-safe internal timekeeper.

Until today.

Ev checked his pulse and then for fever, flying a hand to his forehead, before catching himself. He felt fine. Splendid, actually. Until the recriminations of missed duty told him he shouldn’t.

If his day ran 5-10 minutes ahead, Ev’s nose reddened and itched as if he’d blown into a pepper-laced hanky. However, the inconvenience of sneezes and rheumy eyes was minimal and preferable to the unspeakable alternative. What might transpire in Briskane, in him, should he be delayed… Ev didn’t want to think about that, even without the experience to justify the dread. Uncharacteristic sensations shot from his skull to his feet. Ev must never run behind. Ever.

International news about recently independent African countries, droned from the clock radio. The instrument sat on the repurposed file cabinet, now dresser, on the left side of the cot. Ev didn’t join Meg in the luxury firm queen she slept in next door. Her plumpingly warm form might lull him into a morning spoon, awaken his southerly member, and throw off more than his schedule. Thirteen years of matrimony and twin boys stored in bunkbeds meant a pre-dawn elevation surprised but didn’t last. Ev didn’t care for surprises.

Without spectacles, Ev knew it was past 4:32 a.m. The disc jockey launched into the week’s hit parade at an hour when normally employed Americans either enjoyed or contradicted the ten-tuned line-up. Between 7:45 and 7:47. Jukebox Jeff, Briskane’s A.M. Jock,” then named the week’s number one over 60 minutes. Jukebox was introducing song number 3 when he zigzagged in the Fitzgerald standard. In the spaces between the countdown, the listeners had been teased or tortured with anecdotes, adolescent-like riddles, and sprinklings of entertainment drivel.

Sinatra and his overgrown frat boys were starring in a new movie. On a well-ordered morning, Ev would’ve found a title with “Ocean” intriguing. Had he awakened 4 hours ago the way he’d done some five thousand mornings, weekends included, Jukebox wouldn’t have had his ear. Dr. Brandt would be huddled over his desk in front of the bookshelf, radio locked to the classical music station. Ev worked alone and preferred wordless music or music with words he didn’t understand. The Saturday opera hour featuring Wagner was his favorite.

Why hadn’t Meg checked on him? Ev brought his left wrist to his ear and shook the Omega. Blinking and squinting, he rested it on his nose. “4:02.” He blurrily confirmed the same reading on the clock radio on the dresser. Each of his timepieces had stopped. Died at the stroke of 4:02 a.m. Ev was past late, catastrophically, but he needed one more confirmation. He fumbled in the night table drawer for the Seiko hinged in its travel case. Last year’s Father's Day deviation from the kids. Designed to be snapped into an overnight bag, this charm against the evils of travel tardiness silently agreed with its peers.

Undoubtedly it was at least 8:30. Elvis was pleading, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” and giving the hips a rest. Throwing off the covers, Ev discovered he’d slept solely with the top sheet, and soundly. Another aberration. The overnight temperature should have dropped to 52 degrees. Ev jammed his feet into the slippers positioned parallel to the door. Thank Atmosphere something was still right.

“And the top story of the morning is… Briskane is… hot! A whole 88 degrees!” The radio remained at low volume, but Jukebox’s announcement blared at its owner. Ev wanted to bolt. Was going to the office futile? What had he unintentionally set in motion?

Jukebox was no prophet or preacher, yet he had just declared an apocalypse on the homogeneous, nuclear family-dominated, population 3,972 city of Briskane, Alabama.

“Meg? Troy? Theo?” Ev shuffled into the hallway, throwing open doors, knowing as he did, they shouldn’t be there. Today was Briskane Elementary’s morning assembly. The boys had counted down to their first Friday as color guards, gladly handing their mother white shirts and red ties to be ironed. Ev recalled his surprise when Theo, the younger of the pair by 11 minutes, wanted help shining his shoes. 

Come to think of it, the day Troy and Theo were born had been a brow-mopping 83 degrees. Then, Evanhour was two positions from the bestowal of “Chief Atmospheric Specialist,” but had already impressed the Chairman with his anti-warming drawings. After his prototype produced five weeks of 79–82 degrees that summer, the bureau reorganized. Ev was elevated and repositioned, according to the memo outlined and authorized by two men, to be read and signed by a third, Brandt. As long as Ev remained ever reliable, discreet, and invisible so that Briskane remained ordered, all was well.

The beach lovers whined about the tenacious chill of course, but Briskane’s leaders were ahead of the complaints. The Weather Bureau, Enforcement for Social Stability, and its auxiliary arm, the Public Health Service, combined forces. Activities were concocted to create enticing summer calendars, the most successful, being the Miss Briskane Beauty Pageant. Held each year in the tulip-festooned Briskane Gardens, the citizens forgot they even had a beach. Most profitably, their designation by Ladies Home Journal as “the enviable wedding destination of the South” muted the collective memory of “real” summers.

Under Dr. Brandt’s monitoring, his invention guaranteed the city’s nearest jetstream held below 87 degrees between June and September, while surrounding cities surrendered to 5 degrees higher. It even assured against Indian Summer aberrations through late October. That is, when Dr. Brandt performed no later than 5:35 a.m., 365 days a year. Otherwise, Briskane threatened to derail and spin off its social axis.

Through surreptitious whispers, Evanhour had learned of male citizens, 21 and 31 years of age who one summer, became… “unlike themselves.” After two flower-wilting weeks of 92-degree-plus temperatures, several of these males were spied washing dishes through open windows. The same week, two elders in the Methodist church noticed the lopsided ratio of women in the pews to that in the pulpit. And one particularly deranged fiancé bragged about the aspirations of his bride-to-be over cans of Rheingold. Lauding the anticipated birth control pill, “because she too had a right to attend law school,” he and other males nodded and toasted in equal confusion. The straw to break the mayor’s back was the high proportion of wives giggling contentedly over backyard fences. Their whispered topic: husbands who wanted to talk, listen, and disturbingly, understand.

Ev sped through his hygienic ministrations and stumbled into the Chevy Impala. The steering wheel struggled under his clammy hands as he lay heavily on the gas pedal. Slow down, he willed himself. His eyes swept both sides of his magnolia-lined street looking for “it.” Signs of his beloved city going the way of debauchery. Mr. Pritchitt’s lawn was in its usual state of pristine. Good. The milkman clothed in skin, shirt, and pants the same shade as his delivery, waved at Ev cheerily. Good, good. The Pritchitt’s maid, the same shadowed shade as her uniform, opened the door and retrieved the delivery on behalf of her mistress. Ev wondered if the servant heard Zaire and Madagascar, countries not on his radar, but somehow in his head, had become independent. With a contained nod and downcast eyes, she too acknowledged him. Very good.

Ev scanned the console. He never had to turn it on before and he used the time at the light to find out how. He flipped the a/c vent and turned the stiff dial. The creases in his face, already glistening from the morning’s mugginess, smoothed as the slowly cooling air bathed his face. Ev was late. He tried to mentally prepare for the Chairman’s reaction and his sure termination. Ev couldn’t predict if the Chairman would be more discomfited by his missed duties or by his lack of explanation for the morning's anomalies. Considering everything, Ev felt physically wonderful. His nose neither ran nor twitched. Nothing spasmed or jerked. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe the Atmosphere was giving Briskane a break. Granting Ev grace for the one-time offense, by keeping every man, everything unchanged.

Ev took the left turn at the twins’ school. Pairs of first graders trekked hand in hand to the pond located after the next corner. The boys wore slick left-side parts, while the girls' twin-sided ponytails swayed to and fro in the mild breeze. Mrs. Sterngood led with her back ramrod straight as she had three years ago when the twins were in her class. Still good. Ev exhaled and cruised down the unsloped street.

What day was it? His mind drifted to Meg. It was their wedding anniversary. In 13 years, Ev could never pull up the date on his own. The trap traditionally was set when Ev walked in after work. Meg’s “Anything happen today?” devolved into a guessing game devoid of fun or wins until one or the other of the smart-alecky boys put him out of his misery. But Ev remembered today. Specifically, and not vaguely. The sky bladed in through the windshield and he flipped down the visor. All these years of going in before sunrise deprived me of this.

Meg would love the new Frankie movie. Love getting out of the house. If Sinatra sang a tune or two, even better. I should surprise her, Ev mused. Arrange for her folks to keep the boys. Meg makes our home a dwelling of middle-class joy, and I haven’t told her that enough, actually ever. Ev was startled by the next realization. He wanted Meg’s happiness and should shop intentionally for an anniversary card. Hopefully, the florist’s stock of white hydrangea and blue forget-me-nots was living room-window-worthy. Those blooms did well in cool weather, Ev discovered he knew. The look on Meg’s face when I start the game this year…

One more turn and the building’s gothic arches would loom into view. Ev should’ve allowed himself to enjoy the drive more. After all, there’d been no frantic or threatening calls before he left. Meg always said he worried too much, and he’d tell her so later.

He was here. Though his designated parking spot in the once-used delivery area was around the back, Brandt stopped where he was. The grounds had a feel as well as a look. And every day since joining his existence with The Bureau’s, the aura of permanence had prevailed uncompromised. The Impala chugged softly in “park” awaiting his next move. No police, hoses, or dogs lined the entrance. Everything was as it had been yesterday, though the neck of the swan weathervane, centered in the building’s façade did seem imperceptibly unlike itself.

Ev lingered on the accessory which shared a birthday with the edifice. Both had seen six decades of active duty in the lives of Briskanians though they didn’t know it. What am I waiting for? Ev shook off his imagination, drove to where his car was to spend the rest of the workday, and turned off the ignition.

 “Full of nonsense this morning.”

Ev peered into the visor mirror and examined his left and right profiles. He went about swabbing the lingering shine off his cheeks with cooled fingertips.

“ I’m getting fat,” he said, tugging the flesh behind his chin. Dr. Brandt shut the door, locked it, and exhaled. His fears had been for naught. Nothing had changed.