SCIENCE FICTION / FANTASY FICTION
Who will the shoppe bring in today? A forlorn lover forbidden at the altar, looking for a final lasting moment with life’s perfect mate? Perhaps someone desperate to keep his home, looking for a moment of peace as debt collectors circle his domicile. A writer, composer, or artist facing an imposing deadline and the pressure blocking every creative impulse, looking for an hour of peace.
Ah, the Time Emporium never knows, can hardly imagine, the worries that bring such struggling men and women to their door. But rest assured, each day of the week someone comes their way. Sometimes several in a day. Has through the ages. Through that simple wood and glass portal pass the hopes and dreams and desperations of simple folk but with vexing troubles a simple click of a watch stem may help resolve. And here comes one now.
The front entrance slowly creaks open, the brass bell lightly jingling. It’s early on a Monday, the lightest day of the week for foot traffic after a busy weekend. Our visitor is alone except the few staff, and he edges his way nervously to a dark corner of the room, examining a tall, ancient grandfather clock, one kindred with this renowned London establishment.
Mrs. Frisbee, the ever watchful clerk, eyes him. “May I help you?”
The heavy but diminished figure in the corner examining the fine woodworking detail appears not to hear. His weathered raincoat is stretched tightly over his hunched shoulders not just to keep out the rain, but also prying eyes. Glossy greasy hair is combed but the breeze outside has whipped it carelessly around, giving him a disheveled appearance. He moves slowly over to a counter with a shiny display of gold and silver watches.
Mrs. Frisbee keeps vigil closely. “May I help you, sir?” she says with patience.
His head turns reluctantly. “Who, me? Well, perhaps. This is the Time Emporium, yes?” His voice is soft, gentle, reserved. In his hands is a rolled up cap that he holds tightly.
“Yes it is. We feature all manner of timepieces. Do you have anything in particular in mind? A clock? A watch, perhaps?” Mrs. Frisbee is the epitome of forbearance. Tall for someone her age, she stands upright and regal, nothing out of place on her person. She looks him directly in the eyes.
He loosens his grasp on his cap and straightens his back slightly. Taking a deep breath, he builds some confidence. “I’ve heard you offer ‘Time Services.’ Special services for people in dire need. True?”
Now Mrs. Frisbee smiles. She’s heard this question a thousand times. “You must speak with our special services manager. Just a moment.”
Mr. Ward sits in a small chair beside an unremarkable small table holding a simple lighted dim lamp outside the said manager’s office. He picks at the skin around his fingernails as he nervously waits to see a Mr. Stein. However, his mind is clouded by a thousand other thoughts, a thousand other worries. They are why he is here at all.
If it weren’t for the simple lighted dim lamp, the waiting area outside the store manager’s office would be dark and forbidding. Even so, the light doesn’t provide much comfort. The door finally opens, brusquely. A thin, gaunt man in a dark gray suit holding himself up with a gnarled wooden cane stands athwart the entrance, bright light blaring out from the room surrounded by the silence of deep darkness. Mr. Ward shrinks inwardly.
“You are the one looking for Time Services?” says Mr. Stein with a gravelly voice. He coughs into a wrinkled, ragged handkerchief he pulls absently from his jacket, wipes his lips, then stuffs it quickly back into his breast pocket. “Are you aware what Time Services is?” He glares at Mr. Ward, waving him to enter the office and join him at his desk. It is sparse, almost miserly so.
Mr. Ward rubs the back of his neck to work out its tightness. “I’ve heard rumors, but here’s what I hope for: That you can stop time, briefly. To give a man—a man and his sick wife—a little relief. My wife is very sick. She has had treatments and it’s gotten her feeling better, but it won’t last long. Eventually things will get worse again. I want to stop time long enough, while she’s still feeling well. She’s an artist, a new but very talented artist, and I want to give her the chance to realize her worth in the world. Watch her eyes sparkle and feel accomplished and fulfilled. Before it gets bad again … and she dies. Can you do that for me, for us?” He bows his head submissively.
Mr. Stein stretches his hands across the width of the desktop as if to lay everything on the line, then his eyes lift toward the ceiling light and a crooked smile crosses his lips. “Yes, roughly. But there are some caveats. It’s very simple, actually.” He pulls open a top desk drawer, which squeals as if it were being tortured, and from it lifts a thick gray envelope.
“Follow me.” It’s not a request. Mr. Stein reaches into a side drawer and pulls out a torch and fusses with its switch to induce a beam of light. When the torch fails to light, Mr. Stein twists its rusty lens and whacks its body in the palm of his withered right hand. His eyebrows knit into a fierce scowl, menacing results from it, for the torch alights with a brilliant beam. “Come!”
Mr. Ward follows the manager down the dark hall where the light beam dances like angry spirits from wall to wall and across the floor and ceiling. The strange pair turn once, twice, and a third time finally into daylight until they come full stop before a nondescript door with aged wood and old metal hinges, plates, and handles. Mr. Stein reaches into his pants pocket for an ancient set of keys, which jangle as they dangle in his hand. One in particular looks older than all the rest with a darker shade of rust and more ornate curves and angles. Mr. Stein pushes the key into the door lock and twists it around fully until he can hear a loud click. The door creaks on tired hinges but opens to reveal a winding staircase that seems to disappear down into the dark. Mr. Stein enters without comment, swallowed by the shadows, descending hand-in-hand with the light spirits from the torch leading the way. “Quickly, Mr. Ward. Don’t become lost!” says Mr. Stein. Mr. Ward scurries behind like a promiscuous rat.
They share no conversation, the only sound between them are footsteps and the clacking of his cane as Mr. Stein leads and Mr. Ward follows uncertainly behind. Oddly, the only echo is a deafening silence swallowed by deeply darkening shadows of doubt punctuated by the flashes of light from Mr. Stein’s torch, which feel like reverberating angst. Hitting the surrounding walls, all they reveal is a seemingly endless narrow hall with a low ceiling, which intensifies Mr. Ward’s sense of claustrophobia.
“How far does this go?” says Mr. Ward, trembling.
“It’s not far now.” His footsteps and clacking slow.
Mr. Ward hears the jangle of iron keys and Mr. Stein brings the torch light up to his sallow face to show a small polished brass key. “Pay attention now.” He shines the torch light on a door with a key plate and handle in the center. Placing the key in the lock, he takes great effort to turn it counterclockwise. Then he grasps the handle and with a scrawny forefinger motions for Mr. Ward to look much closer. As Mr. Ward watches closely, Mr. Stein turns the handle counterclockwise a quarter turn. “Only so far, Mr. Ward. No farther, no less.” He removes his hand and steps back.
Keeping his torch light on the door, Mr. Stein waits. The silence is unnerving–until it is broken by a loud clank and then a low grinding growl. Mr. Stein nods in satisfaction. The door puffs open an inch all around followed by a cloud of dust. Mr. Stein coughs, dabbing at his face with his handkerchief once again. “We may enter now.”
The door now resembles a bank vault, thick as if protecting against assault. Mr. Stein tugs on its heaviness and swings open the door. Mr. Stein reaches into the left and flicks on a light switch and the room fills with golden illumination. It is quiet but for the soft ticking of an escapement mechanism, and as the two gentlemen have arrived at precisely the top of the hour, the striking of ten bells and the playing of Westminster Chimes. Mr. Stein turns his head to hear the familiar tones before entering the room. “Here we are,” he says with solemn satisfaction.
The two respectful figures enter, one tall and thin walking upright and confident, the cane stowed in the crook at his elbow, the other squalid and frail walking low and timid. They take a short descending stairway to a small landing, which is where Mr. Ward can take in the full measure of the enormous apparatus before him. He is taken aback by its scale and complexity. “My God, it is magnificent,” he says, awestruck.
It consists of an enormous clock, but of such a scale one cannot quickly encompass its individual elements at a glance. It requires intense study. There is the large, round face in the center with its gentle serif strokes and swirls on the hands and numbers. Then there are the plethora of exposed metal cogs, tines and twirls, wings and flags, widgets and wingnuts, and all manner of inexplicable twisting, turning, whirling, and tapping gears, hammers, and freewheeling oscillating wheels and balancers. All this and more that Mr. Ward can hardly account for as he first takes it all in, held together by the most glorious brass scaffolding and framing.
A smarmy smile sneaks across Mr. Stein’s face before he catches it and it evaporates. “Just so,” he says and his lips return to a stoic calm. “This is the science behind the Time Service. We are all slaves to its lack of passion or emotion. As with all nature, it obeys rules, as must we.”
From the landing emerges two stairs, one to the left and one to the right. Mr. Stein bows and sweeps his right hand inviting Mr. Ward to precede him down the stairs to the left.
They stop in front of a small wooden platform in front of the massive metal frame of The Clock. Mr. Stein points to the wooden platform. “To engage the Time Service, which is accessed through the William Aubrey Smythe Time Piece, you must step up to the portal plate. You must step on its exact center, neither too much to the left nor too much to the right, neither too far forward nor too far backward–in the exact center. It is perfectly balanced and recalibrated each day. With this finely tuned timepiece, we must be precise.”
Now Mr. Ward approaches the platform and gingerly, delicately steps onto the platform, which is only a bit wider and longer than his girth. A bell rings anxiously.
“Back away, Mr. Ward,” says Mr. Stein, “and try again. Remember: You must be perfectly centered on the platform.”
He backs off the platform, peers down at it looking for markers or other hints for distributing his weight. The platform is made of sturdy red oak, stained dark and highly polished with a thick coating of varnish. There appear to be very light indentations, which may be from wear. Mr. Ward steps on them hoping past users have established unintended centering marks. The bells don’t go off this time.
Mr. Stein pats Mr. Ward on the back. “There, there. Well done. I believe we have learned a valuable lesson, haven’t we?” Mr. Ward nods, although his bewildered eyes betray confusion.
“Now to operating this exquisite instrument. First, you will have decided on an exact date and time for reserving our services. Do you have an idea of when that might be?”
Mr. Ward gulps. This seems so sudden, now that he must commit to an exact moment. He pauses, then he speaks softly, his voice nervously squeaky. “Would tomorrow morning work?”
“Let us be exact,” says Mr. Stein. “Ten o’clock exactly; no sooner, no later.
“Second, your spouse with whom you wish to share this experience must wait for you in our gift shop. She must not witness you engaging The Clock. You may not share any of our secrets about The Clock or our service. Understood?”
Mr. Ward nods his head in the affirmative.
“Third, you must sign our NDA. It spells out all the rules and your agreement to not disclose any of our secrets, plus it binds you to serve the Time Service at some future time as payback to our service to you. All the details are spelled out here.” Mr. Stein waves the packet from his coat pocket.
“Shall we sign it now; get it out of the way?” says Mr. Ward. “And how much will this service cost me?”
Mr. Stein grabs Mr. Ward by the elbow and ushers him to a narrow table and chair along the right-hand wall. He unfolds the packet of papers and smooths out the folds so they lie flat against the tabletop. The text is bluish, as if it has been mimeographed rather than freshly typed, and upon inspection Mr. Ward sees sections circled with yellow highlighter.
“Your cost is a modest £100, Mr. Ward; full details on page 3,” says Mr. Stein, a sour frown forming on his lips. “Please sign your initials where there are highlighted circles. There is a place for your full legal signature on the back page. Take your time to read and understand everything, but please do get along with it.” He leans impatiently on his cane.
Mr. Ward clears his throat and proceeds, skimming the important circled sections and initialing them. “This says I may stop The Clock but I must re-engage it after a certain amount of time: No more than three hours. That isn’t much time. Can we not negotiate for more?”
“We may discuss this at the time, Mr. Ward. We try to be reasonable. We hope you will be reasonable as well.” Mr. Ward lowers his head in thought, then nods in assent and initials the rest of the page and signs the document. He smiles broadly. “I just want to move ahead.”
“I thought you might,” says Mr. Stein, pulling out his dangling, jangling keychain once again. They move back to the The Clock platform.
Examining the full apparatus of The Clock in its immensity, Mr. Ward cannot imagine what he must do to disengage time. His mind pours over the fullness of the device, but it lazily misses its finer points, its minute details. Like the keyhole below the giant number 6, and below that, inset into The Clock’s bright white face below his eyesight, an everyday looking master watch painted in white glazing with elegant gold detail and a small, delicate brass switch along its right side.
Mr. Stein jangles a small set of keys before Mr. Ward’s face, which Mr. Ward hadn’t noticed were different than the earlier set of keys he had been carrying. “Tomorrow morning at 10 when you arrive, you must bring with you these keys,” he says clearly and slowly as a teacher instructing a child. “Mind the keys with your life. Do not lose them, and do not abuse them.” He explains each of the three.
“This old key is just like the first key I used to access the long, dark corridor to reach this room. The large, bright brass key unlocks the safety door to enter this room. One quarter turn counterclockwise—remember! And this small gold key unlocks The Clock. Be firm but gentle with it.” He steps on the wooden platform and puts the small, round gold key into the keyhole beneath the giant number 6 on The Clock’s giant face and gives it a firm turn. “A half turn clockwise, please.”
The Clock begins to grumble mechanically, a vibrating rumble emitting from its face. Mr. Ward excitedly turns and reaches for the stair landing behind him. But Mr. Stein grasps his shoulder. “Steady, my friend, or you’ll miss this.” He points to the inset watch now emerging from the face of The Clock on a sturdy, well-machined brushed-brass platform.
“When you are ready to stop time, while the watch is still seated in this platform, press this brass switch down one full stop,” says Mr. Stein firmly. He demonstrates the downward movement alongside the switch on the right side of the watch, pulling Mr. Ward beside the watch. “Do you see it?” Mr. Ward vigorously nods, his eyes opening wide.
“Now remove the watch and carry it with you. That’s how you know how long you have spent in suspended time—and how much time you have left before you must return the watch and re-engage time. Understand?” Mr. Ward mouths a “yes” but speaks not a word.
“Guard this watch with your life. If the switch moves back up while off the platform you may move it back, as long as it is down when you place it back in its platform. Don’t break or otherwise allow it to be damaged. Understand?” Mr. Ward whispers, “I understand.”
“This watch is not just priceless, it is unique in the world. Protect it. All right?”
“I assure, Mr. Stein, I will take care of it like one of my own,” says Mr. Ward.’
Mr. Stein smiles reassuringly. “Now when you are ready to re-engage time, return to this room, place the watch back in its platform, move the switch up one full stop, and turn the key counterclockwise a half turn. Leave the room, turn off the lights, lock the room in reverse of how you opened it. Return the keys to me or, if I am not available, to Mrs. Frisbee. Simplicity itself.”
“Simplicity itself,” Mr. Ward repeats the words but doesn’t believe them, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his coat.
The next day arrives. Mr. Ward brings his wife Eleanor to the Time Emporium Gift Shoppe. Eleanor admires delicate wristwatches under the watchful gaze of Mrs. Frisbee. “I must find the water closet,” he whispers to her. She ignores him as he scoots off through the sunlit public rooms toward the back of the old building. There, where the light ends abruptly, is the old door with its antique faceplate and handle.
Mr. Ward fishes out his set of keys and finds the fancy but very old key and inserts it into the faceplate. He reaches into his opposite coat pocket for the torch he has remembered to bring along and flicks on the light and unlocks the door. Down the stairs he walks, down the tunnel-like hallway and to the vault-like door at the end. Again Mr. Ward uses the special key furnished by Mr. Stein and turns it counterclockwise, precisely a quarter turn. The door unlatches and Mr. Ward pulls at it to open it. He reaches in to turn on the lights. All goes according to plan. Now he steps on the wooden platform–perfectly centered–before The Clock and delicately fits the smallest key into the inset white-glaze watch and turns it a half turn clockwise. The watch platform emerges.
All this, Mr. Ward has experienced before under the tutelage of Mr. Stein. What comes now is before his actual experience. Mr. Ward takes a deep breath. He looks at his wristwatch, which reads 10:00 a.m. The Clock strikes the hour precisely and besides a constant ticking, he can hear a tocking, a whirling, a whizzing, a pinging, and a tapping. Then The Clock strikes a bell ten times and plays Westminster Chimes. It plays loudly and resoundingly, the noise vibrating through the room. Mr. Ward stretches out his arms at each side to steady himself on the wooden platform for fear he will fall. Then there is a profound silence.
Mr. Ward reaches up to the watch, which now before him seems much larger than before. He hesitates, for now he takes responsibility onto himself. This is the final step, and so Mr. Ward reaches up to the watch, touches the switch on the right-hand side of its mechanism, and pulls it fully downward, then … releases his touch.
The second hand on the watch, which Mr. Ward hadn’t before noticed moving, now sweeps around the face of the watch counting seconds. The watch face allows for 60 seconds. He looks at his wristwatch and notices it has stopped sweeping. Then he looks up at The Clock and sees that it, too, has stopped counting by the sweep hand. “It’s begun!” Mr. Ward mumbles in wide-eyed wonder.
There is no time to waste. Mr. Ward pulls at the watch from its platform. It is larger than a standard pocket watch and heavy, but it fits into his side pocket. He runs up the stairs, past the landing, through the door, stops to fiddle with the light switch, runs up the tunnel-like corridor, up the stairs, and through the aged door and back to the sunlight. There he stops a moment to gather his wind and his wits.
Returning to the Gift Shoppe, he finds Eleanor looking among the gift counters. She is so focused on a particular elaborate clock display, she doesn’t notice all the human figures have stopped in motion around her. Not another soul is moving, nor even breathing. Not a mote of dust is drifting. If Mrs. Frisbee, hovering over a display nearby, were dusting with a feather duster, not a feather would float nor a gust of wind would waft. All was still and, unusually for this inner city burrough, hushed. She and he are, literally, suspended in time and she is oblivious to it, lost in reverie.
“Dear, I believe we waste our time here. We should move on,” says Mr. Ward, gently guiding her by the shoulder toward the front of the Emporium, where he will usher her out the door and into the wider world.
“We haven’t seen the rest of the shoppe,” she protests.
“I know. Later. It’s so lovely outside and there is so much else to see. I would despise taking up your time feeling so, well, cooped up inside on this glorious day.” Mr. Ward walks her out the door and into resplendent warm sunshine.
Mr. Ward—Pelton by name, but she calls him “Pill” for short, for he’s good for what ails her—points to the brilliant blue sky. “How can this be a finer day?” Eleanor glows at the reminder. “Yes, it’s lovely, Pill. How could you possibly arrange it better?”
“You love antiquing. There’s a wonderful shoppe down the way. Ice cream—how you love your sweets. There’s a shoppe just over there.” Mr. Ward points across the street. “And next door, a very fine pastry shoppe with croissants delivered daily from Paris. Oh, and not three stores down, you may have your choice of the latest gowns, dresses, and accessories. This will be a shopping day for you, my dear. Pray tell me your heart’s desire and I will make it so.”
Eleanor shakes her head. “No, Pill, simply no. This is a day to explore, not fritter away our money. I don’t want us to regret overspending later. Eat extravagantly, perhaps. Look with abandon, surely. But not spend above our limits. Any art shops? Music venues?”
Mr. Ward reaches over her shoulder and collar and kisses her sexy long neck. “You are so sensible. Here’s what we should do, then. Lunch at The Tangle, which is a lively bistro just down the way. They have great music and drinks, and they have al fresco service. But first, we visit a bookstore with an art exhibition next door.” Eleanor agrees and gives him a vigorous hug. They grasp hands and walk on energetically.
“How did you find all this?” she asks, looking intensely into his green eyes made more vivid by the brightness of the sun.
“I didn’t want to waste any of our valuable time together. While you were in treatment, I did a lot of research, asked friends. Your friend Ang had some ideas. She and Felix—you remember my former schoolmate—knew of this district. Said it would be perfect. So the other day I came down here and looked around. They were right!”
“So that’s where you were!” says Eleanor. “That clock shoppe—who recommended it?”
“Felix, actually. I, uh, can’t say much about it. It’s just a clock shoppe, but I know you like fine things. They sell the best, and they have been around a long, long time. Here’s the bookstore…”
The two trot excitedly over to Best Reads. People are sitting at tables outside with coffees and teas reading books and sampling magazines. Eleanor doesn’t notice, no one is in much of a hurry or that the smoke from their cigarettes doesn’t drift, it just sits still like columns of cotton building skyward. Inside, people stand silently at display tables or suspended at bookshelves. Pill and Eleanor are beside themselves emotionally, still oblivious to others.
Eleanor finds an artbook in the remainders section. It is oversized and full of angles and swirls and blocks of color. There is a long line at the counter and Eleanor steps at the back. “You want to look around a little more while I wait in line?” says Pill. She hands him the book and wanders over to the romance section.
Pill sees an open register at the counter and tries to scan the book and his credit card, but transactions require time spans, which are suspended. He grabs a pad of paper and pen from the counter and the book tag off the book, then writes an IOU with his credit card number, adding, “In a hurry. Please use this card to pay for this book.” He signs it and runs off to find Eleanor.
As Pill arrives behind Eleanor in the romance section, he spots an open table at The Tangle across the street. “Oh, look, there’s an open table at that bistro I mentioned earlier. Let’s quick grab it.” She is excited and they quickly join hands to make haste for the open space. He runs to the revolving door, but when they get there it won’t budge–it revolves over time and time has been suspended. He gives himself a face palm for forgetting, then sees an interior door wedged open, which the two run through. A couple has earlier opened the exterior door and it has remained open, barely, leaving just enough room for Pill and Eleanor to squeeze through. Eleanor gives it the odd look and shrugs as Pill looks back at her. Then she spots the couple ahead of them who had just passed through the door, stopped mid-stride.
“Pill, what on earth? They’re just—just standing there!” It stops Pill in his tracks. He grabs both her soft, warm hands in his and wonders what to tell her. Instead, he “punts the ball.” “Let’s grab that empty table and I’ll try to explain.” Her eyebrows knit into a frown as she slowly follows him, her confusion deflating all her energy like a balloon being deflated of its air.
She stares ahead as they cross the street, not appearing to notice the vehicle traffic ground to a halt nor the foot traffic frozen in motion. Her attention is solely on Pill. As she squeezes into a metal chair that refuses to move away from the table and sees him doing the same, she finally focuses on her surroundings. Everything is still. There is no motion and no sound. No birds are singing, no engines are running, no tires are squealing nor brakes clamping, no people murmuring nor yelling. Down the road she sees a group of youths with instruments on a patch of grass playing for a small crowd, but there is no music. “For God’s sake, Pill, what’s happening?”
The air is cool and the sun is bright, but there is no breeze and the sun isn’t heating the air. That takes time. Pill reaches for Eleanor’s hand and squeezes it gently. “My Dear Eleanor, let me try as I may. There is much I cannot tell you, at least for now. But I can say, to make the most of our time together while your treatments have staved off your illness, I have made certain arrangements.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the special watch from The Clock. “Please listen carefully. This ‘watch’ is more than a watch. It’s a device which allows me to suspend time for a short while. That’s why no one else walks, no vehicles move, no doors revolve or swing open or close, registers do not function. Anything that acts over time cannot act.”
Eleanor slumps in her chair. She thinks to check the delicate watch on her left wrist and discovers that it still says 10:00 a.m., as does the watch on Pill’s wrist.
“Then how is it that you and I walk?” says Eleanor, pleading for some sense in all the nonsense.
“Because I suspended time while we were in the time shop, in the Time Emporium. It made us immune to the effects of the watch.”
“There were others in the time shop. Are they immune also?”
“No, just you and I are. That was part of the deal.”
“Oh come on, Pill, really? This is madness.”
“What else explains it?” She can’t answer.
Pill looks at the face of the handsome watch in his hands. Well passed an hour has advanced.
“Look, it has given us more than an hour together without the effects of that God awful condition bothering us. We’ve robbed it of its power to affect us, slowed it of its advance in your system while we enjoyed each other’s company. What a beautiful gift.” Pill takes her face in his hands and loves how soft and young it feels. The thought of the deadly disease held at bay in her body makes him sad, but he sets it aside in this seeming eternity. “I could sit here with you for days, enjoying you just as you are…forever.”
A new shadow forms across them. Mr. Ward turns to find Mr. Stein standing behind him.
“Mr. Stein. How are you able to be here?” says Mr. Ward, startled. “Time is suspended.”
“Oh, Mr. Ward, how naive of you. Time suspension of The Clock doesn’t affect me. I am the keeper of The Clock.” Mr. Stein reaches over Mr. Ward’s shoulder and picks up the watch to examine it. “I see you are already progressing nicely through your time.”
The Wards look at each other with remorse, then Pill reassures Eleanor with a gentle squeeze of her hand and turns again to Mr. Stein. “You said that time is negotiable, sir, that we could discuss it.”
“We are discussing it now. And I’m afraid we find you are in a very difficult position. The contract you signed said you have up to three hours of time suspension.” Mr. Stein examined the watch face. With pursed lips and stern eyes he says, “The watch says you have suspended time a little more than two hours. How much more time do you need?”
Pill looks to Eleanor. Her eyes are vacant, clearly not understanding. “This was always for my wife. You know this. Time for respite from the worries of her illness. Here, free of time, free of the advance of her illness, she can relax, enjoy herself. Now you bring this back on her. I doubt any limit is sufficient when you know that to return to normal time allows her illness to return as well. So … what? Four hours? Five? What can you give her?”
Mr. Stein scoffs. “Here’s the part you don’t seem to understand, Mr. Ward: The effect of time stoppage is cumulative. It doesn’t sound like much, but to the universe-at-large it is much. It adds up, with so many people using this service. It’s a kindness to individuals, but it comes as a cost. The question is, how does it get paid out?
“You’ll extend your stay an extra hour, two. The effects are extended to the universe exponentially thrice. That’s actually two hours—up to four! How do you suppose that gets paid back?”
Mr. Ward shrugs his shoulders.
“Yes, of course, you haven’t even thought about that, have you? You really should give thought to the consequences of your actions. What is the saying–oh, yes: ‘There is no free lunch.’ Someone, somewhere, always pays the bill. In this case, Mr. Ward, at the other end, back in real time, in the real world, your wife pays the tab.”
This news strikes Pill hard. He cannot believe what he hears. He looks at Eleanor, whose face becomes a mask of confusion. “I must pay for this now?” she says, taken aback.
“In a manner of speaking,” says Mr. Stein, trying to sound sorrowful but not quite selling it.
Pill isn’t having any of it. “Now, Mr. Stein, there’s no way Eleanor is paying for any of this!”
“I said, ‘In a manner of speaking.’ It comes as a matter of the common good by our company. But we can’t do anything about the physical nature of the universe and its demand for recompense for overstaying your welcome, now can we?” Mr. Stein begins to rub one hand against the other, whether to warm them or to relish squeezing something from someone.
“Now here’s the rub my friend: The time you take from the universe in extra time stoppage must be added back to the universe when you start it back. In this case, it comes at the expense of Eleanor’s life expectancy. Whatever extra time you have given her because of the treatments will likely be the source of the subtraction. If there is a lack of remainder, then she will likely die prematurely.”
This hits like a gut punch for Pill and Eleanor. Their reaction is immediate as they reach up from the table and embrace each other, sobbing. “No, this cannot be!” says Pill. “Oh, Pill!” cries Eleanor.
“This is the caveat I mentioned yesterday. I am quite sorry you didn’t heed it,” says Mr. Stein, feigning sorrow.
Mr. Ward turns to Mr. Stein in anger. “What is the use of this ‘gift’ for the common good with such stingy giving? Three hours? Three hours or you die six hours earlier? My God, man, that is atrocious, inhumane!”
“Oh, Mr. Ward, these are not our rules. These are the rules of the universe. The Laws of Conservation. Conservation of energy, of momentum…”
Another shadow falls upon the three from behind. They turn to see the diminutive Mrs. Frisbee standing a few feet away, her hands clasped behind her, a frown on her face. “Do we have a problem, Mr. Stein?”
Mr. Stein’s demeanor changes slightly, his voice calming. “Not exactly, Mrs. Frisbee. I am merely discussing the terms of their agreement.” He lowers his head slightly to her.
“And you, Mr. Ward: Everything all right?” She smiles wanly.
“No, it isn’t. This is my wife.” He introduces Eleanor. “I need more time off the clock and Mr. Stein said we could negotiate stoppage time, but now he is denying us that. The agreement said three hours but I could use more like five.” His eyes tear up, pleading for leniency.
Mrs. Frisbee draws in a deep breath. She raises her head and in doing so seems to grow another foot taller. Mr. Stein looks down, as if he is diminished in size and power.
“What’s at stake here, Mr. Ward?”
“Eleanor is quite sick, Mrs. Frisbee. She has taken medication, which has stabilized her condition for a short while. But soon she will become ill again. We are here to enjoy our time together while she is feeling well … before she becomes too sick to enjoy life. I wanted her to have a full day out in the open air, as if nothing is amiss. The more time we have, the better.”
Mr. Stein interrupts. “I’ve explained the consequences…”
“And we’re ready to accept them,” says Eleanor, raising a hand to quiet Pill. “I’m having a lovely time, now that I understand. Pill has set this little adventure in motion and I’m ready to pay the price for living it fully.”
“Well, Mr. Stein is the Time Services manager, but he isn’t the decision maker,” says Mrs. Frisbee decisively. “I am. I own the Time Emporium. It’s been in my family for centuries. No one knows the consequences as fully as I do.
“Mr. Stein is a stickler for the letter of our agreements. He isn’t a stickler for the heart of them. That’s where I come in.” She nods towards Mr. Stein. “Give me a moment.” She walks aside with Mr. Stein to talk in confidence. They argue briefly but in the end, Mrs. Frisbee motions for Mr. Stein to leave and he does.
Returning to Pill and Eleanor, she clasps their hands gently. “Yours is a pernicious disease. How long you may live, you never know. You’re taking medication to prolong your life and the universe cannot know how long that may be. So to say that overstaying your use of our Time Service—the time stoppage—may shorten your life may not really be true. I wouldn’t worry so much about it. I would use it liberally but cautiously. You have my blessing.”
This brings much relief to Pill and Eleanor. They simultaneously hug Mrs. Frisbee, then each other.
“Oh, Mrs. Frisbee, how can we ever thank you,” says Eleanor.
“Do I owe you more money for extending the stoppage?” says Pill.
Mrs. Frisbee shakes her head. “No, of course not. Your fee pays for Mr. Stein’s time, not the clock’s. But remember, in the agreement you have agreed to commit some time in the future to assisting us with the Time Service. We may expect a bit more commitment in kind.
“Now go on, you two, and make the most of your time together here. You’re wasting it chatting with me! Be off!” Mrs. Frisbee turns and jogs off to catch up with Mr. Stein.
Pill looks at Eleanor. She looks up into his face. They both look relieved, their faces reflecting the Sun’s unrelenting shine. “Let’s head to that art exhibition I was telling you about. They were interested in some of your art and you’ll get to see it displayed as it truly deserves.” Eleanor swoons. “Oh, Pill!” Everything is going to be fine after all. Almost everything.
Hand in hand, they wander off together into borrowed time.
Five weeks later, it’s a somber afternoon on a gray autumn day. Mr. Ward stands before a fresh grave in a quiet cemetery as guests filter away to their automobiles. He wants a moment to himself. A woman’s hand reaches up to his shoulder.
“Mr. Ward, I’m so sorry,” says Mrs. Frisbee. “I hope she didn’t suffer much.”
He turns around and smiles past his grief. “Not as badly as it could have been, thanks to the medication. And we’ll always have the Time Emporium. Revisiting the shop was special to her.”
Mrs. Frisbee squeezes his shoulder. “I’m glad the emporium provided some relief, for both of you.”
“Still busy I presume,” says Mr. Ward.
“Still busy, which in addition to paying my respects is another reason I am here today.”
“My check didn’t bounce…”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that,” Mrs. Frisbee chuckles. She pulls a small packet out of her purse. “Remember your non-disclosure agreement?”
“I haven’t said a word to anyone…”
“I’m sure you haven’t, Mr. Ward—Pill, if I may? Part of the NDA was your agreement to come help us out, to serve some time with us. Remember?”
For a moment Mr. Ward forgets his grief and cheers up. “Why, yes! What could I possibly do to help?”
Mrs. Frisbee’s shoulders perk up. “You’ll remember Mr. Stein, our Time Services manager. He’s been at the job a long time and I feel he could use a break. He’s never really used our service. What that role needs is someone who has been there, who has needed the ability to suspend time to provide relief for some dire need—someone who can empathize with the people who come to us. After watching you interacting with The Clock and with time, I’m sure you’re such a person. How would you like to become the Time Emporium’s Time Service’s manager? At least for a while.”
“That’s an awesome responsibility, Mrs. Frisbee,” says Mr. Ward. “Are you sure you want to trust me with it? You hardly know me.”
“Mr. Ward, I’ve seen all I need to see to know you’re the right man for this job. Anyone who shows the care you showed with Eleanor, who took such gentle care of The Clock, and who took on the persona of ‘Pill’ without a whimper will be just fine with us.” She beamed with confidence.
“Then I will be delighted to be the new Time Services manager.” And so began his role helping others, just one soul brought into the Time Emporium who found time to stop time for others.
©2004 Alan Eggleston. All Rights Reserved.
ExperiFiction 