As soon as our eyes met, the hairs on my neck stood straight up. I looked down at Meatloaf, my pug, and he walked by like nothing was happening.
The man was dressed in a suit that had an uppity sheen to it. He wore a trilby and wore it well. His hands were in his pockets, and the right one was fiddling with something, maybe loose change.
“Hello, Mattie.”
Nobody has called me Mattie since tenth grade, when Michael Winerod tried it and got knocked to the floor in the boys’ bathroom. Everyone who knows me knows those are fighting words. I prefer Matthew but certainly don’t throw punches if
hew
is left off. I politely indicate my preferences and nobody makes the mistake twice. At least to my face.
“It’s Matthew. Nice trilby.”
“Most people think it’s a fedora.”
“Most people don’t know much.” I stepped forward to block the doorway of my condo. And I do mean block it. I have to turn sideways to get out. I have naturally broad shoulders that have just expanded with time. “Who are you?”
“My name is Constant.”
“I thought Mattie was bad. Short for Constantine?”
“No. Thomas Constant.”
“Awesome. Well, listen, whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. And just a tip here, but you’re kind of in what’s considered the universal personal space of someone you don’t know. I mean, I might buy a magazine, except I can see your pores and now I’m distracted. A couple of steps back, and with that suit and your low, smooth voice, I am pretty sure you’ll be able to sell
Cosmopolitan
to my eighty-year-old neighbor, Beatrice. She’s two doors down. But I have to run.”
He didn’t move. “I have selected you for an experiment.”
“An experiment. If it’s like a free bariatric medical study, I’m in. Otherwise, no. Please move.”
He didn’t. But he did pull a watch from his pocket, the old kind made from real silver. It had the slightest of ticking sounds to it, yet it thumped in my ear like the midnight bass beat of the neighbor above me.
“Let me explain it a different way. I’m Time personified. No, in case you were wondering, I’ve not been around forever. Only since I was created. Just like you.”
I looked into his eyes, a swimming motion of blues and grays, circled by black. His eyelashes and eyebrows were dark, too, but he otherwise had no hair on his face.
“Good try,” I said, gesturing to myself, “but
I
created this big blooming onion, according to my doctor, therapist, and butcher, so I guess we don’t have much in common after all. Step aside.”
“Mattie, I have very important news for you.” His voice, low and deep, slithered. It wasn’t a British accent, but it was proper, like in the old black-and-white movies.
“If you call me Mattie one more time, I’m going to stop, drop, and roll you, and I’m here to assure you that your suit won’t ever fit the same again.”
“Do with me what you will. I assure
you
that time is not easily stopped. But first, hear what I have to say.”
“I’m in a good mood today. My wife answered my call this morning. So make it quick.”
“In exactly four minutes, you’re going to die.”
This is the hard part to explain. Not that the other was a piece of cake. But maybe I haven’t lost you yet. Now it gets freaky. At the exact moment he said that, his words seemed every bit as true as the ground I was standing on. It was like I blinked and I knew what he was saying was true.
His expression didn’t hint at kindness or compassion. His eyes still had that steely stare that made my skin crawl. But I knew he was right.
Heart attack.
I’d been expecting it for years. So had my doctor. (Sometimes when I was at his office, just for fun, I would take short breaths to freak him out.) There were moments I felt like it might be coming for real, but it never did. This morning, I’d felt different. More out of breath. My appetite waning.
“It’s all so symbolic,” I breathed, gazing at him. “The ticking clock. My own ticker. Dear God . . .” I clutched my chest. It was hurting. “I don’t want to die this way. Not my heart. Please . . . please . . .”
“I can’t reveal the manner in which you die. It’s clearly stated in the deal I made with Death. But I can offer you something.”
“How much time do I have left?”
“Three minutes and twenty-eight seconds.”
“I don’t want to die.” Sweat beaded on my forehead. I felt dizzy. Nauseous.
“You should know what a ridiculous statement
that
is. For heaven’s sake, do you know of anyone in all the billions who’ve walked the earth who has managed to avoid it?” He handed me the handkerchief that was tucked into his suit pocket like it was a piece of art. It was blue like his eyes, and pure silk. “I can offer you an acquittal to this current circumstance, however.”
“Dear God . . . dear God! You’re going to ask my for my soul, aren’t you?
Aren’t you?
”
“Again, that’s Death’s purview. I’m in it merely for the observational benefit.”
“Of me?”
“Humanity in general.”
“Right,” I gasped. “What are my options?” My voice was high, squeaky. Every word took twice the effort.
“Just two. Makes it easy that way. Because I am Time, I am offering you seven hours.” He smiled like he’d just handed me a Publishers Clearing House check.
I was hunched now, sure that I was feeling a searing pain down my arm. I looked up at him, the sweat soaking straight through the silk handkerchief that I held to my forehead. I’d probably ruined it forever. “Seven hours? That’s it?”
“Not just any seven hours.” He touched my shoulder. His fingers felt like ice. “Stand up. You’ll think more clearly that way.”
I stood, bracing myself against the doorframe.
“You can go back in time for seven hours. Any point of time in your own life span.”
I figured I had about a minute and change left. It was hard to judge time with him actually staring me down. But suddenly I got mad. “Seven hours. Back. In my life. In
this
life.
This
,” I said, gesturing wildly at myself, “can’t be undone in seven hours, mister.”
He eyed me. “Surely you have regrets you wish undone.”
“Lots of them. A pound of ribs. Butter in the mashed potatoes. The list is endless. But I got over those regrets, as you can see.”
“What about Beth?”
Now I eyed him. My fists balled. “What about her? How do you know about Beth?”
“She occupies my space as well.”
“Leave her out of this.”
“As you wish. But imagine if things were different. Think of one thing in your life,
Matthew
, that, if changed, would’ve made all the difference in the world to you.”
“Don’t you get it?” I said, sinking into my own words. “Seven hours isn’t enough to undo what has been done to me. What I’ve done to myself. What I do to others.” Tears blurred him, and he seemed to float right in front of me. “How much time do I have left?”
“Fifty-eight seconds.”
“Wait.” I wiped my eyes. “You said two options. What’s the other?”
He shrugged. “It’s the less popular option.”
“What is it?”
“Seven more hours to live your life. But in your own words, who wants seven more hours of this ‘blooming onion’?”
“Seven more hours and then I have a heart attack?”
“I have no control over how you die, you must understand. But I do know in seven hours, your time will be up.” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty-four seconds to decide. And I am precise, mind you. Don’t wait until the last sec—”
“I’ll take it! I’ll take the extra seven hours.”
“To be clear, the seven additional hours tacked on to your life?”
“Yes! Yes, that!”
Tick, tick, tick.
Constant seemed to be taking mental notes. And then, his thumb hit the watch. I sucked in a deep breath. The ticking stopped. But luckily, I didn’t. I gasped for more breath. The air filled my lungs quickly. There seemed to be a cold wind on my face. I realized it was his breath. He was standing that close.
It smelled like . . . nothing.
“Here,” he said, and he handed me the pocket watch. It was heavy and fit perfectly in my hand. I looked at its face and then held it closer because it seemed to be missing something. There were only the numbers one through eight. Nine through twelve were gone—an open, gaping emptiness, as if they’d been swallowed by something horrible. I noticed the second hand, dutifully keeping time, ticking very softly, hardly noticeable. It was twenty-four past one in the afternoon.
“This is how I will know my time is up? When the minute hand reaches twenty-four past eight?”
“Precisely. And I mean that in the fullest sense of the word, you understand.”
I nodded.
“Use your time wisely,” he said. Then he regarded me for a moment, the first time he seemed more human than not. After a few seconds, he handed me a small book, barely ten pages, made of what seemed like cotton, but not. “You might want this as well.”
I read the title. “
A Guide to the Pocket Watch
?”
“Think deeply on it. The pocket watch has much to offer. More than just wheels and pinions. Let it be your guide as to how you use your seven hours.”
I stepped back and closed the door. How I would use my seven hours. You would think with only seven hours, there would be so many options that the hardest part would be choosing how to use them. But not for me.
I already knew what I would do.
About the time my marriage and arteries were collapsing, I began having a recurring dream. I’m not a big dreamer, nocturnally or otherwise. But this dream seemed to be every night. And it was one of those disturbing kind of dreams that makes you wonder if there’s an alternate universe somewhere trying to tell you something. I tried not to think of it during the day. But at night, it plagued me like bad heartburn, the kind you can’t shake even with antacids and your pillows propped up.
The gist of the dream was this: I punch Noel Neet out at a book signing for his newest release,
Your Mega Life
.
I know this raises a lot of questions—namely what I was doing at a book signing because I’m not a reader. But his books are everywhere: the supermarket, the gas station, the dentist’s office. There he’d be, his flat face on the dust jacket, his teeth gleaming and white and that smile stretching a little further than necessary. I distinctly remember checking out at the grocery store one day, a rotisserie chicken under one arm, a jar of mayonnaise under the other. There were all these tabloids on a rack, which I’m fond of scanning because it makes me feel better about myself. But then, right next to the
Enquirer
’s claim that Katie Holmes is an extraterrestrial, there was that face.
His
face. Smiling at me, like we had something in common. I stared back him because I knew I’d never have that kind of smile. For one, my cheeks prevent me from smiling broadly. But even if I could, I wouldn’t. I didn’t have much to smile about. Beth and I weren’t doing well. I was getting a bad feeling about work. My doctor was proclaiming me all but dead. And my rotisserie chicken was getting cold.
There he was, smiling like
life was good. Mega good.
That night, the first dream came to me, as pungent as garlic.
The more the dream occurred, the more I began wondering if it was a sign. Instead of trying to push it out of my mind, I began thinking about it more and more. Then I began hoping I’d dream it because when I woke up in the morning, I felt really good.
It was the same dream every time. I stand in a long line, his new bestseller about how to get a good life tucked against my chest, and right when I get to the table, I just lean down and swing a right hook into his left cheek. It all plays out in slow motion, his skin rippling against my meaty fist.
I’ll tell you one thing. He isn’t smiling.
It was a Saturday when Beth and I had the biggest fight of our marriage. I won’t go into the details, but it consisted of a lot of hurtful words, horrible accusations, and low-fat cheese. I left the condo, slamming the door behind me. I was making my way to Five Guys, simultaneously thinking of our fight and their menu, when I saw it.
At first I thought it was a mirage. It worried me because if I was hallucinating, there was a good chance that I’d finally lost my mind.
But as I looked around, I realized it wasn’t a mirage. At a big Christian bookstore on the corner of the busiest intersection in town, a large banner was stretched between two stakes: NOEL NEET BOOK SIGNING TODAY!
The parking lot was packed like it was the Super Bowl. I barely found a place to park my Hyundai and still get out of it. I was a good one hundred yards away, parked in a Chinese food restaurant lot, but somehow I wasn’t thinking about the distance. I was thinking about Noel Neet.
It took twenty minutes, but I got into the store and it was mass chaos. People were pining for books and autographs and I let myself get caught up in the madness. The next part is a bit of a blur, but somehow I found myself purchasing his latest book and sliding into line with all the other people. Waiting.
I’m pretty tall, but even at my height, I was having a hard time getting a good glimpse of him. I’d see the top of his black hair and a small bit of his hand. I’d hear him laugh. But I couldn’t see that smile. All for the best, I supposed. I’d see it soon enough, and then it’d be too late, for him and for me.
I’d actually not punched anyone since reaching adulthood, but I wasn’t nervous. There wasn’t much to rehearse. I’d done it a thousand times in my dreams—I didn’t say anything, just punched him straight away, without hesitation.
I waited for two hours in that stupid line, but it seemed like minutes. Before I knew it, I was ten people away. Now I could see him. His smile was even brighter and cheerier in person. I’m not kidding—I think a radioactive bleaching tray might’ve been involved. The teeth were straight as Presbyterians; I’ll high-five him that. I could hear his laugh. I heard him say, “Thank you.” And every few minutes, the sea of people would part just a bit, and I’d glimpse his smile. Of course he had a lot to smile about. People loved him. I, on the other hand, did not. Love him. Or have a lot to smile about.