Get the Time
Cameron McFadden
Copyright © 2011
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Other Books by Cameron McFadden
The Golden Book
The City of Ancients
1.
Out of impulse, James Seville checked the time.
10:09 p.m.
He still had eleven minutes before he headed home… eleven minutes to enjoy himself.
James knew his watch was accurate. It was made by the Swiss Army Knife Co., and fashioned from titanium, with a lithium wrist-wound motor, so that his battery charged with each stride, and only lost one second every 200,000 years.
This watch, he had concluded, was reliable. It never lost a second, not even after an SUV ran over it, going forty-five miles an hour.
James Seville had died in that collision; yet somehow, his watch had survived.
He looked down at his drink, a half-empty Bordeaux glass of syrah, and calculated. His peppery, full-bodied wine needed time to aerate, for the air to mingle with the grapes and soften its robust tannins, but if he took a sip every two minutes, James would be finished by ten twenty. He wouldn’t order another.
“You know, I think you‘re the only person I‘ve seen drinking wine here.”
The voice sounded bright and cheery, and certainly feminine.
But James didn’t have time for love or even conversation, especially not inside a dive bar like Simone’s. Instead, he stared into his glass, hoping whoever it was might take a hint.
“Well, you’ve got a name, don’t you?”
With a sigh, James turned to face her, but stopped short. The woman was tall, with long, pantyhosed legs and powerful calves, hips broader than her shoulders, and a mischievous smirk. Her narrow face was as pale as paper, which made her black hair and hard-green eyes all the more striking. What she had on, a crisp black jacket, matching skirt and toupee blouse, only accented her silver, club-shaped cufflinks and earrings. Yet all of it seemed a bit ruffled and unkempt, especially the sleeves of her blouse.
The woman looked older than James; he guessed late-thirties, but her cheekbones and crows feet were guised by powder and crimson mascara.
“Of course I do,” he murmured. “James Seville.”
“Hiya, Jim. I’m Sarah Gardner.”
“Pleasure.” James didn’t extend his hand.
As Sarah sat on an adjacent stool, James got a mouthful of her perfume, which tasted a lot like honey and a little like lilacs. She wore too much of it, yet he could see how some might find it arousing. But sexual temptations had died long ago, alongside his broken body.
“So, how’d it happen?” Sarah demanded.
“How did what happen?”
“You know, it. The big I-T. How’d you kick the bucket? Bite the dust… how’d it happen?” She paused, only now noticing James’ slumped posture, the receding hairline by his temples, his wrinkled tweed vest and stained slacks. “You didn’t off yourself, did you?”
“That’s preposterous,” James blurted out. He was about to add “especially in my profession”, but knew it could only prolong the conversation. He turned back to his drink instead. “It was a car accident, off 78th and Houston.”
“Oh.” Sarah sounded disappointed, and he couldn’t blame her. Hundreds of people died every day from car crashes. Even still, James always thought his death was fitting - it was an ordinary death for an ordinary man.
Sarah waited, hoping he might reciprocate her question, but he seemed more interested in his wine. She reached inside her purse, which looked as professional as her suit, and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. After pounding the green carton on the bottom of her palm five times, she removed the plastic covering.
“Would you mind stepping outside first?”
Sarah stared back at him blankly. Half the people inside Simone’s were already smoking - he could see nicotine wisps drifting by underneath the billiard lights.
“You know, those things’ll kill you,” he said.
“They did, actually.”
James was about to apologize, but Sarah just snickered as she pulled a smoke out with her lips, lit it with a silver-plated Zippo and breathed in, eyes closed. “Old habits die hard, I guess,” she said, exhaling.
“Or they don’t die at all.”
“What are you, a doctor?”
“Psychologist.”
“No kidding… aren’t you a bit young for that?”
An awkward silence followed, as James did a double-take and Sarah noticed her free hand, lying flat on the bar, was a bit too close to his. “Look, I’m not trying to pull anything, okay?” She raised her hand, motioning to a diamond ring on her index finger. “I just want to talk.”
James fixated on the ring, a familiar pang of jealousy coursing through his veins. It looked quite nice.
“No one here likes to talk much.”
“I take it you’re new here,” James said at last.
“I guess so. It happened two months ago, so yeah, you could say I’m new in town. Why? Is it obvious?”
All around them, Simone’s was quiet, but not still. Strangers sipped their scotch on the rocks, or flipped through songs at the jukebox, or chalked up crooked pool cues, but Sarah was the only one talking. Even a trio of middle-aged men, each dressed in a colored jersey, sat hushed around a table as they watched the 7th inning stretch on TV.
They came from all walks of life, these broken, severed souls, but that didn’t seem to matter here. Sooner or later, they had all resigned to wasting whatever life they still had left in silence.
It was only a matter of time before Sarah joined them.
James’s watch alarm beeped. 10:20 p.m. Zooey was waiting for him.
Though his glass was still half-full, James drank the rest in a few gulps. “I’m afraid I must be going now, Ms. Gardner. It was very nice meeting you.”
“Yeah, same here.” Sarah hesitated. There were a thousand other things she would’ve rather said.
James didn’t give her the opportunity, either.
He hastened to the exit, zipping up his black fleece overcoat. It looked cold outside, so he flipped up the collar to protect his ears, even though he knew this was useless.
People here had to wear whatever clothes they died in - James only wished he had died wearing something with a hood.
2.
Get the Time Page 1
