The Minute

The Minute

by

Bob

His new Rolls crashed into the alarm clock at precisely 6:55 A.M., thus allowing for five minutes of grogginess, so that by 7:00 A.M. both feet would be firmly planted on the bedroom carpet. He then headed for the shower via the usual kitchen route, delivering a standard "Good morning" as he passed Wife—who had arisen twenty minutes earlier to start breakfast. Traditionally, the first snap of bacon could be heard just as he closed the bathroom door.

By 7:34 A.M., give or take a few seconds, he was seated at the breakfast nook in front of a plate of bacon and eggs, coffee, orange juice (Wife had forgotten the prune juice) and the morning paper turned, as it always was, to the financial section. It was understood that he should not be bothered with conversation at this time. Customarily, to insure against a mis-read stock quotation, Wife always left the room to help prepare their seven year old daughter for school.

Breakfast required eighteen minutes, which allowed him an additional six for polite conversation with Wife and Daughter. This morning he decided not to pick up his option due to un-forseen circumstances: He had required an additional four minutes on the stool. So this morning he grabbed his suitcase and in a flurry of tailor-made suit and neatly trimmed mustache said: "Gotta run… As the poet said: ‘time is money and money time’." He chuckled moderately at his wit, then he accelerated out of a mist of My Executive after shave. Wife and Daughter followed at a safe distance. He glanced at his watch on the way out. Wife and Daughter stood somberly in the front doorway as he headed for the garage.
"Don’t I get a kiss?" said Wife.
"Daddy. See my costume?" said Daughter.

He glanced at his watch again, then over his shoulder, and in a single fluid motion tha wasted little momentum, blew Daughter a kiss and said to Wife: "That’s cute, dear." He then offered two pats to the head of the animal that was sitting next to the garage, propped his briefcase against something, and deftly extracted the keys from his pocket. As he leaned over to unlock the garage, he felt a rumble in his silk boxer shorts. Without turning around he shouted "Don’t forget the prune juice, dear." Again, he looked at his watch and noticed that the second hand had stopped moving. Moreover, something strange was happening to him. No only had the second hand stopped moving but also the wrist it was attached to—along with the rest of his body. He stood there, bent over like a wax dummy with watch and wrist dangling ethereally before his face. Suddenly it’s second hand began to move backwards. The watch dissolved into a door knob, and he found himself back at the house. He was just leaving.
"Don’t I get a kiss?" said Wife.
"Daddy. See my costume?" said Daughter.

He glanced at the watch, then over his shoulder, and in a single fluid motion that wasted little momentum, he blew Daughter a kiss and said to Wife: "That’s cute, dear.." He patted the animal, as before; the animal he now recognized as their dog Skipper, a mongrel who had been the family pet since the day he came sopping wet to their back porch. He propped his briefcase against something—a bicycle. He reached for his keys, as before, leaned over to the unlock the garage and passed wind into his silk boxer shorts—just as before.

Deja Vu, he was thinking—right before he shouted: "Don’t forget the prune juice, dear." It must be Deja Vu, that feeling that you have said something or done something before—when you know you really hadn’t. A trick of the mind. Everyone gets it once in awhile. He looked at his watch and prepared to unlock the garage. Important client. The shopping center deal. It could make him rich and he had to get going. But instead of un-locking the garage and hopping in his car, as his mind directed, he realized he was back at the house. He was just leaving.
"Don’t I get a kiss?" said Wife.
"Daddy. See my costume?" said Daughter.

C’mon. What the hell is this? He thought. This time as he glanced over his shoulder he saw that his daughter, Shawn, was dressed up as a princess in one of Wife’s old formals; she had gold glitter in her hair. "I must be losing my mind," he thought. "Someone get me to a doctor!" His mind was thinking one thing, but his body was doing another. It patted Skipper. Now it was propping the briefcase against the bicycle—Shawn’s bike. Now it was reaching for keys. Now it leaned over and farted. Now it was yelling: "Don’t forget the prune juice, dear."

When he looked at the watch he could tell that from the second he left the house to second the watch stopped at the garage took exactly one minute. Then it started all over. And he started all over.
"Don’t I get a kiss?"
"Daddy. See my costume?"

He glanced at the watch and wanted to throw it away, then over his shoulder with the same fluid motion. This time he noticed resignation in his wife’s eyes. He wanted to go back and kiss her, to be able to say her name—Tanya—and to apologize for taking her for granted. Insteaed, he blew his daughter a kiss and was telling Tanya: "That’s cute, dear."

He patted the dog and wanted to get him a bone. He propped his briefcase against Shawn’s bike and noticed that the chain was broken. He wanted to go get his tool chest. But instead, he leaned over and farted into his silk boxer shorts and was reminding his wife about the prune juice—that damned prune juice!--one more time.

During the fifth "Cycle," as he had come to think of them, he noticed what a beautiful Autumn morning it was. The day was crisp and blue, and he pictured the family at a picnic on a golden hill. That was just before the voice—certainly not his voice—was saying: "That’s cute, dear." But it was his voice. It was, and yet it wasn’t—more like a recording. Damn. He loved them so much. He hoped they would come and visit him at the asylum.

He was looking forward to patting Skipper this time around. Then as he leaned over and waited for the inevitable fart he saw one of Tanya’s earrings on the pavement. He recalled her frantic search through the house the other day. He hadn’t helped her. He had been on the phone: business. If only he could return it to her this very moment. But all he could do—that is, all his voice would do—was remind her about the prune juice. He hoped they wouldn’t serve it at the asylum.

As he entered another cycle he began to actively plot some ways that might free him from his strange predicament. When the sequence of events reached the dog he would try to pat him a little harder. Maybe Skipper would nip him. The dog had never quite taken to him anyway. That would do it. That would break the sequence. It was worth a try. When he got to Skipper he tried and he tried. But all his palm would yield were the same two gentle pats. Frustrated, he leaned to unlock the garage and after the familiar air, tried to lean over just a little bit more. Maybe he would lose his balance and topple over? But he didn’t topple; he didn’t even teeter. He reminded her about the prune juice, and then stood there dumbly staring at that confounded watch. It glared back at him with a mocking expression on it’s onyx face: 7 hours, 53 minutes, and 10 seconds into a new day that had been stilled by…by what? His own insanity? He couldn’t summon any better explanation.

"Don’t I get a kiss?"
"Daddy. See my costume?"

Yes, she got a kiss. And yes, he could see her costume… if they could only hear him. And he saw the broken chain on Shawn’s bike and the lost earring. He glimpsed a monarch drifting regally in the breeze, and he tasted a slice of azure sky. He had felt the leafy lawn beneath his shoes, and he had listened to a meadowlark harmonizing with the bells from an ice cream vendor. He saw, he heard, he felt life unfolding before him. Then, for the first time since Fats McGuffy stomped on his animal crackers, he began to cry, right after "…prune juice, dear…," but with tears that were trapped hideously inside his mind.

But then at the conclusion of the seventh cycle, when he was, for the seventh time bent over and staring at watch, a tear broke loose from it’s bondage and trickled down his cheek.
"John? Do you have your keys?"

The words. The words! Her voice was clearly and honestly out of sequence. The warmth from a spontaneous smile spread from his face to his watch arm; it thawed and dropped lightly to his side. He whirled around and the keys flew gracefully to the top of the garage.

"Tanya! Tanya!…Shawn!" He ran towards them with arms waving. Then he halted abruptly. "Wait…I have something for you." He went back and snatched up the earring. Then he ran, half skipped towards them, leaped onto the porch and gathered them into a swooping embrace. "I love you so much…Both of you," he said, with un-characteristic and near frightening tenderness. A kiss for each and he opened his palm.
"Oh, my earring!" Tanya gasped. "Where on earth did you--?"
He sighed. "What a gorgeous day. Let’s go on a picnic… How about it?"

Tanya looked at him strangely. "Well, it’s a little early… And Shawn has school…John, are you all right? You look kind of pale."
"Never felt better, " he said. He gently guided them back in the house. "Shawn can skip school… Do we still have that wicker picnic basket?"
"But what about your client?" Tanya asked.
"Client? What client?… Oh, him," his voice lowered. "He can wait a minute… He can wait much longer than a minute."

Compulsively, he looked at his watch, nodded, then slid it off his wrist. He directed it into a wide arc that met with a coverless aquarium gurgling in the corner. The waterproof, seventeen jewel movement Burrini sank to the top of a castle spire, where it winked in the soft morning sun and caught the maternal eye of a pregnant Angel fish.

The End