Apology #23: The End of Time
Burn the Calendars. Break the Watches. Forget the Birthdays.
This is a long one. I’d apologize, but as you know, that’s not really what we do here. It might take a while to get through. However, as you’ll soon find out, time isn’t really what you think it is. Enjoy.
Dante is tired. He can feel his eyelids get heavy as he tries to remain focused on the spreadsheet emanating from the blue light of his computer screen. The surrounding cubicles are empty, and the only audible sound in the office comes from the loud tick of the clock hanging on the far wall. Dante closes the spreadsheet and opens up his email, scrolling through advertisements for post-holiday deals from Target and Walmart. Finally, he opens up an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party from his friend Emily. She sent it to him last week, and he still hasn’t responded. She even texted him this morning to make sure he got the evite, and he gave her a noncommittal, “Yeah, I should be able to make it.” In truth, he’s still undecided. Things have been weird between him and Emily ever since they broke up. They’ve both expressed the desire to remain friends, but Emily’s desire seems much more genuine than Dante’s. It’s been three years, but Dante is still grieving the loss of their love. He knows that time heals all wounds; he just wishes that time would hurry the hell up.
The days in between Christmas and New Year's are always such a drag. The holiday season warps your sense of time, and that intervening week either feels too short or too long. Offices become wastelands, and the employees who have run out of vacation days and still have to come in are working at half-speed. Dante is one of those poor souls. The only other person working his floor is the janitor, Terrance, who pushes his cart through the corner offices, emptying wastebaskets and cursing the rich assholes who pay him minimum wage. Terrance is a born and bred New Yorker, like Dante, growing up across the river in Queens. Dante is one of the few people at the company who sees Terrance as a coworker rather than just the man who cleans the toilets. Dante’s happy to chop it up and shoot the shit when Terrance passes his desk, and Terrance appreciates that. Most of the other suits won’t even give him the time of day.
“How about those Knicks last night?” Terrance remarks in an excited tone as he pushes his cart towards Dante’s cubicle.
“Incredible,” says Dante. “I thought for sure they were gonna blow it. Brunson is just built different.”
Terrance stands in the doorway and perches his arm over the top of the cubical divider. “You on the boss’ shit list or something? Everyone else takes the week off, and you’re still coming in and pretending to work?”
“Vacation days, man. Everyone else is smart and saved a few. I used mine up taking all those trips to the shore over the summer. My buddy convinced me to buy into a timeshare a couple of summers ago. With coastal erosion, the house will be right on the beach in a few years.”
“That’s some sad shit, man,” says Terrance. “I don’t know much about investments, but that seems like a bad one. Tell me you got something fun planned for New Year's at least?”
“Nothing really. This girl I dated a while back is throwing a party and sent me an invite. We’re still friends, but it’s weird, you know? I’ll probably just stay home, watch the Knicks, order a pizza, crush a few beers.”
“So you’re going to do the same thing you do every other night? Go to the party, man.” Terrance empties the trash in the cubicle next to Dante’s and starts to push his cart onto the next row. After a few feet and a few seconds of silence, he adds, “Can’t believe it’s almost 2025. Maybe this is the year the Knicks finally bring home a title.”
When the clock on the wall hits noon, Dante feels a sense of dread at the fact that his workday is only half over. The grumbling in his stomach tells him that it’s time to take his lunch break, so he gets up, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevators. As he waits for the elevator, he stands in front of the 25th-story window that looks out towards Lower Manhattan. He runs through the rolodex in his mind of lunch options within walking distance and struggles to make a decision. When the elevator dings and Dante gets on, he’s met by a small, gray-haired woman whose face is obstructed by today’s issue of the Times. She’s wearing a tattered and stained beige sweater that represents a stark contrast from the tailored suits that usually fill this elevator. Dante knows most of the other people in the building, but he’s never seen this lady before. She seems oddly out of place, more suited for a homeless shelter than a midtown financial firm. Dante stands in the opposite corner, and the woman looks up to greet him.
“Happy Holidays,” says the old woman with a smile.
“Same to you.”
“Do you happen to know what time it is?”
“Sure, it’s…” Dante looks down at his Rolex, “12:02.”
The woman doesn’t respond. She just nods her head and continues to peruse the business section of the newspaper.
Dante takes out his iPhone, and the screen lights up, displaying the time and date and his wallpaper of Yankee Stadium. “I’m sorry,” he says to the woman, “It’s actually 12:08. My watch must be a little slow.”
The woman tilts her head and looks at Dante. “That was just a test, dear. I don’t actually care what time it is. Such information is irrelevant to me.”
Dante furrows his brow in confusion but decides not to ask any follow-up questions. He just hopes the woman finds her way back to whatever psych ward she’s escaped from. He checks his watch again as he watches the number above the door descend. It takes an eternity, but eventually the doors open to the front lobby. He extends his arm in front of him to allow the crazy lady to get off first, but she doesn’t move.
“Oh no,” she says. “I’m staying on for another ride. I’m in no rush to go anywhere.”
Dante exits the elevator and shakes his head in bewilderment, hoping to brush off the strange encounter. Before he walks out into the frigid New York City air, Dante stops into the men’s room to relieve himself of the three cups of coffee that got him through the morning.
When he finishes his business, Dante steps in front of the long counter of sinks to wash his hands. He catches a glimpse of himself in the wide, wall-length mirror and pauses to take in the middle-aged man staring back at him. He looks in the mirror every morning before he leaves his house, but for whatever reason, this one is accentuating his aging features. The collection of gray hairs sprouting from his temple matches the ones sprinkled into his scruffy, disheveled beard. The slim figure of his youth has now been replaced by a plump gut that hangs slightly over his belt and threatens the integrity of the buttons on his shirt. He was 22 when he started working in this building, and as he judgmentally takes in his 47-year-old self, he begins to wonder where all the time has gone. Somewhere within the last twenty-five years, without realizing it, he gave up on all of his childhood dreams and accepted a subpar life of spreadsheets and neckties and reusable takeout food containers. The vision he once had for a wife, a family, and a house in the suburbs has slipped away, only to be replaced by a dead-end job, a catalog of failed relationships, and a one-bedroom apartment in Hoboken.
To him, the year 2025 still feels like something out of a science-fiction novel. A year that belongs to an era of flying cars and sustainable cities and colonies on the moon. And yet, it’s only a few days away. How can that be possible? Things are moving way too fast. Dante needs them to slow down. Life is exhausting him, and he has no control over the pace at which it is moving. The clock hands keep moving, the seasons keep changing, the train of time keeps speeding down the tracks. The never-ending cycle of sending and receiving emails, of spending and earning his paychecks, of waking up and going to sleep. It’s all too much. He just wishes he had some space to catch his breath, to catch up to the rest of the world. Whatever sick and twisted deal humanity has made with Father Time, Dante wants out. With his lunch break—and his life—ticking away, Dante looks down at his watch. He wishes it would all just stop.
Dante grabs a hot dog from the street vendor outside the office building and makes his way back to his desk. Inspired—if only slightly—by the existential crisis in the bathroom, Dante takes out his phone and opens up the text from Emily. He stares at it for a minute, trying to decide if going to the party is a good idea. What’s the worst that could happen? He types, “I’ll be there. But I’m not staying until midnight,” and he hits send before he has a chance to change his mind. He yawns, takes a sip of his lukewarm morning coffee, and opens up the spreadsheet he was working on earlier.
******
Dante arrives at Emily’s party fashionably—but not egregiously—late. He put too much thought into the timing. He didn’t want to be the first one there—how awkward—but he also didn’t want to be so late that she texts him wondering where he is. He carries a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in one hand and a six-pack of Coors Light in the other. He props the bottle under his arm as he takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. Emily answers the door a second later, donning a silky red dress; her brown hair—now with just a touch of gray—flows down over her bare shoulders. Despite Emily and Dante being the same age, time has been much kinder to her.
“You made it!” she exclaims cheerfully, in a tone and volume that suggests she’s already consumed at least one glass of wine.
Dante offers a genuine smile and hands her the bottle of Sauv. Emily leads him into the kitchen where a generous spread of appetizers has been arranged on the table. While he’s putting his beer in the fridge, Emily gets pulled away by another one of her friends but says she’ll be right back. Dante grabs a beer, twists off the cap, and finds an empty spot on the kitchen counter to lean against. He bobs his head to the sound of the upbeat music as he glances around the room. He sees a few familiar faces—friends of Emily’s whose names he doesn’t remember and doesn’t really care to remember.
A few minutes later, Emily comes back into the kitchen dragging one of her friends by the hand over towards Dante. She’s a tall woman with olive skin and short dark hair. Her bare arms are heavily decorated with sexy, yet somewhat intimidating, tattoos.
“Dante! I want you to meet someone.” Emily says as she approaches. “This is my girlfriend, Jill.”
The music is a little loud, so Dante thinks he may have misheard the wording. “I’m sorry, did you say girlfriend?”
“I did! Crazy, right?” Emily responds.
Dante, still processing this revelation but also realizing he’s being rude, reaches out to shake Jill’s hand. As genuinely as he can, he says, “It’s so nice to meet you.” Jill returns the pleasantry, and Dante follows up with, “So…how long has this been going on for?”
Emily replies, “Oh, it’s only been a few months, but honestly,” she makes eye contact with Jill, “it feels like we’ve known each other for so much longer. Funny how time works that way.” Sensing Dante’s discomfort with this whole interaction, she adds, “Don’t worry, I didn’t realize I was a lesbian until after we broke up. I wasn’t lying to you about anything.”
“That’s not really as comforting as you might have intended it to be. I’m glad you guys are happy, though.” With that, Dante excuses himself to mingle with some of the other partygoers, suddenly wishing to be anywhere else besides in that conversation. He finds a spot on the couch in the corner of the living room and takes a seat. He sips his beer and scrolls through some things on his phone as he continues to process the bombshell of news that was just dropped on him. After a few minutes, he looks up and spots an attractive brunette in a light brown sweater dancing by herself in the middle of the room. She is moving her hips and swinging her arms, and it appears—at least from Dante’s vantage point—like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Like she’d be doing the same thing at home if she weren’t doing it here.
Dante can’t look away—he’s mesmerized by her confidence—and eventually the girl meets his gaze and smiles in his direction. Still dancing, she moves over towards the couch and collapses in exuberant exhaustion into the seat next to him.
“Hi!” she says, “Isn’t this such a fun time?”
“I don’t think anyone’s having as much fun as you.” Dante replies. Jokingly, he adds, “I don’t know what sort of drugs you’re on, but I could use some.”
And with that, this mysterious woman sticks her hand in the pocket of her jeans and produces a single pink pill capsule. She opens her palm towards Dante. “Here you go.”
Dante looks down and laughs, “Wow. I wasn’t being serious. You really called my bluff. Isn’t it a little early in the night to be doing hard drugs?” He looks down at his phone. “It’s only 8:30. Usually I wait until at least 10:00 to start popping pills.” This was a lie. He wasn’t much of a pill guy. He just didn’t want to seem lame in front of this cute—yet strange—girl.
“Time isn’t real, honey. At least not in the way you think about it. Believe me. Just take the pill.”
With the bathroom mirror existential crisis from a few days ago still somewhat fresh in his mind, Dante picks up the pill and inspects it. He’s at a party he doesn’t want to be at, at the invitation of his ex-girlfriend, who just told him she’s gay, talking to a dancing enigma of a human. What the hell. He puts the pill on his tongue, closes his eyes, and swallows. At the very least, whatever this is, it will help pass the time.
When he opens his eyes, he turns to the mysterious woman with the mysterious drugs, but when he looks at the spot on the couch next to him, she’s gone. He looks up at the crowd of people dancing in the middle of the room, wondering if she went back to her solo act, but he doesn’t see her. Her stands up to get a better view. Maybe she went to the bathroom? Or to the kitchen to grab another drink?
Suddenly, Dante is overcome with dizziness. His head feels light, and his vision feels blurry, and he has to sit back down just to steady himself. He leans back, trying to get his bearings straight, but the room keeps spinning. Whatever he took, he took too much. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes to try to slow things down, to stop everything from moving.
******
When Dante opens his eyes, he finds himself staring at a white-tiled ceiling in a room brightly lit by fluorescent lights. He hears the beeping of some sort of machinery and gets up to inspect his surroundings. Once his feet hit the floor and he spins around to get a 360 view, he knows where he is. He’s in a hospital room. How the hell did I get here? There’s a door to his left and a curtain to his right that divides the room in half. He looks down and notices he’s still in the clothes he wore to Emily’s party. He does a quick body check. None of his body parts hurt, no blood on his clothes, all his limbs still intact.
He walks over to the door and pulls on the handle. Locked. Weird. Since when do hospital rooms lock from the outside? Dante turns around, walks past the bed he woke up in, and sneaks past the curtain to the other side of the room. Lying in the bed, hooked up to all sorts of devices, is an old, frail woman dressed in a hospital gown. Sitting on the chair next to her is an old, tattered, beige sweater and a copy of The New York Times. Dante has seen her somewhere, but his memory is hazy.
Slowly, Dante makes his way to the end of the bed, hoping this woman has some answers about how he got here. He’s startled when the woman starts talking without even opening her eyes.
“Are you here to apologize?”
“Apologize?” Dante responds, “What do I have to apologize for?”
“You did this to me.”
“Lady, I don’t even know you. I don’t even know how I got here.”
“You wished for time to stop. I am Mother Time. And soon your wish will come true.”
Dante takes a second to think, trying to get a grasp on reality. “Wait, did you say Mother Time? What happened to Father Time? I thought Nature was supposed to be the mother in this weird, fucked-up, imaginary family."
“A common misconception. You humans have been mislabeling us for years. Time has many more feminine traits than masculine ones. Time is patient. Time is nurturing. It heals all wounds and forgives all sins. Time will sit with you when you cry and will be your light through the darkest of nights. I will help you mourn your loved ones and raise your children. Nature, on the other hand, is angry and abusive; it’s destructive and unforgiving. It’s much more masculine, with its physical strength and emotional weakness. Nature is stubborn and does not wait for anyone. Don’t get me wrong; I love Nature, but he wouldn’t last a day in my shoes.”
“Okay, well... Sorry for the mix-up, I guess. That doesn’t explain why you’re here, though. Or why I’m here. How can you be in a hospital bed? You look like you’re dying. Aren’t you supposed to be immortal?”
“I was immortal. I was perfect and undisturbed and destined for a smooth ride to eternity. Nature and I were living in harmonious peace. And then humans came along and ruined it all.”
“How did we ruin it?” Dante replies, “We don’t have any control over you. We can’t change your direction or alter your effects. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Mother Time coughs. The heart rate on the EKG flutters slightly, but she steadies herself. “You’re right, no one can completely control me. But it was the humans who decided to measure me, to define me, to bend me to their will, and use me to structure their lives. Before the humans, there was no need for days and weeks, for minutes and hours. There were no clocks, no watches, no train schedules, or travel itineraries. The sun does not schedule when it will rise and when it will set. The caterpillar does not mark its calendar to remind it to turn into a butterfly. The gazelle does not hurry because she is late for a meeting. Only the humans have a need to define what I am and how I work. Forcing me into tiny units, confining me to your neat little boxes, branding me with your numbers and names—all of that has taken its toll. I’ve become small and weak. The end of time has been coming for a while now. Every new invention became another domino waiting to fall. The first sundial was a death sentence; the first calendar a terminal diagnosis.”
Dante looks at the clock on the wall above the bed. He realizes the loud ticks are getting further and further apart. Time is slowing down. It’s starting to fail. Then, he notices something on the bedside table. A picture frame. He walks over to inspect it. It’s a young brunette in a light brown sweater. She’s dancing.
“Who is this? I know her.”
“Of course you know her. That’s me. That’s what I looked like before.”
Dante’s confused. “Before what?”
“Before your people came along and ruined me. I used to be free. I used to live with no restrictions, with no one governing me or expecting me to behave in accordance to certain criteria. I used to dance in Nature’s rain and swim in his oceans. Things were less defined back then, the rules much less strict. Sometimes I’d give the sun the day off or let the moon sleep all night. Days could be longer or shorter, without rhyme or reason. There was no pressure to be perfect. The flowers do not complain about one or two fewer hours of sunlight, as long as they have enough to survive. The lions do not care if the moon and its darkness show up late, as long as they get enough sleep to hunt in the morning. But humans, they care about those things. They rely on my consistency to keep their system running. There is no room for error. They cannot slow me down or speed me up or take away my effects, but in all other aspects they’ve stripped me of my liberties. They’ve enslaved me. And in turn, they’ve enslaved themselves.”
“Haven’t we just adapted our lives to the rules that you created for yourself?” Dante asks. “We didn’t change the way you operate. You’re still moving at the same pace and in the same direction, right?”
Mother Time coughs again, her voice becoming raspy. “Yes, but what your species has asked of me has become too much. I’ve heard all the demands and the prayers and well-intentioned wishes. You needed longer days to help the harvest to feed your growing populace. You wanted longer lives and quicker recovery times. In some moments you beg for delay, and in other moments you pray for efficiency. The devices and systems you’ve created to measure me have only added to the pressure. You sit at work and stare at the clock, wishing for the seconds to go by faster. But when you wake in the morning, you beg me to drag out the minutes before your next alarm. In times of struggle, you ask for brevity, and in times of joy, you ask for a chance to savor the fleeting moment. When you’re young you want to press fast-forward, but when you’re old you beg for a rewind. You are an insatiable species. These demands are a burden that I can no longer bear.”
Dante is racked with guilt and sadness and a mix of so many other emotions. The ticking of the clock continues to slow down. The beeps on the EKG continue, but their pace becomes warped, like her heart is beating through molasses. He knows this conversation is nearing its end, and he’s terrified of what that means. He still has so many questions to ask her. Her vision starts to drift, her eyes begin to close for the final time.
“Wait!” Dante screams. “Stay with me. Don’t go. Humanity needs you. What happens next? How are we supposed to live without you?”
Mother Time is on her last breaths. She’s fading into oblivion. Only a few seconds of lucidity remain in her grasp. “It’s simple. Stop counting. Stop trying to measure every moment. Burn all the calendars, break all the watches, forget all the birthdays. Stop structuring your lives around arbitrary dates and times. Stop celebrating growth on a schedule; celebrate growth when it happens. Wake up when your body tells you to. Get to work whenever your mind has the fuel and energy to get things done. Go home when the tasks are complete. Eat when you’re hungry and sleep when you’re tired. Time is not something to be measured. It’s not something that can be spent or saved or wasted. Time was meant to only be observed, to be admired and cherished—like a piece of fine art; a beautiful woman who dances like no one’s watching. The moment you stop measuring your life is the moment you can start enjoying it.”
And with that, the clock on the wall stops ticking, its hands freezing in between seconds. The beeping on the EKG changes to one continuous, singular tone. Time has come to an end.
Dante feels his knees begin to buckle. The floor beneath his feet becomes unsteady. His head becomes light, and every muscle in his body becomes weak. He ponders the ticking of his own internal clock for a brief second before collapsing to the floor.
******
He wakes up to a sharp pain in his abdomen. He grimaces with distress before opening his eyes, and he sees Terrance standing outside his cubicle poking him with a broomstick.
“Welcome back to earth, dude.” Terrance puts the broom back on his cart. “You were out cold. You good?”
Dante takes a second to gather his thoughts. He must’ve fallen asleep at his desk. There’s a puddle of drool on his keyboard. “Yeah, I’m alright. Besides that wake-up shot to the liver you just gave me. Thanks for that.”
Terrance laughs at the mess of a man sitting in front of him, with an imprint of several number keys stamping his forehead. “You’re welcome. Now get your ass outta here. Clearly you’ve been here way too long.”
Dante stands and notices how dark it is outside. He rubs his eyes, trying to wipe the sleep out of them. “I just had the weirdest dream ever.”
Terrance just laughs and shakes his head as he pushes his cart in the direction of the bathrooms. “Next time I see you, I want to hear all about that New Year’s party. You better not bail. Bring her a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Chicks love that stuff.”
Dante puts on his jacket and half-heartedly says, “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Have a good night.”
As he makes his way to the elevators, he tries to put together the fragments of the strange dream that just consumed his most untimely nap. But the faces and places are fading rapidly and evading his grasp. He shakes his head, clearing his mind, and starts thinking about the leftover Chinese takeout he has waiting for him at home. When the elevator dings and Dante gets on, he’s met by a small, gray-haired woman whose face is obstructed by today’s issue of the Times. She’s wearing a tattered and stained beige sweater that represents a stark contrast from the tailored suits that usually fill this elevator. Dante knows most of the other people in the building, and this woman looks vaguely familiar, but he can’t seem to place her. She looks oddly out of place, more suited for a homeless shelter than a midtown financial firm. Dante stands in the opposite corner, and the woman looks up to greet him.
“Happy Holidays,” says the old woman with a cheerful expression.
“Same to you.”
“Do you happen to know what time it is?”
“Sure, it’s…” Dante looks down at his Rolex, but the hands are not moving. He taps its face a few times—as if that’s going to do anything—and nothing happens. Huh, must need a new battery. Next he takes out his iPhone and taps the screen to wake it up. He sees the familiar picture of Yankee Stadium, but where it usually says the date, it just says, “Today,” and where it usually displays the time, it just reads, “0:00.” Confused but not alarmed, he turns back to the old woman. “I’m sorry. I actually have no idea what time it is.”
The old lady in the beige sweater smiles, flashes him a wink, and responds with a single word. “Good.”
See you next week. Until then…
Be Groovy. Stay Weird. Love Without Limits.