Lord of Time

by Michele Amitrani

  Pacific spat on his palm and stretched out his hand. Alfred winced.

  “Well?” Pacific said, waiting.

  Alfred looked hesitant. “Do I have to spit on my hand?” he asked.

  “You most certainly do.”

  The young man sighed. He spat on his palm, and the two shook hands.

  Something odd happened then. Alfred looked at their clasped hands and then at the man in front of him. It was as if a veil of smoke had thinned, and he could see Pacific more clearly. Pacific wasn’t a stranger anymore. He was a man who had bound himself to a promise. He didn’t quite know why he was so certain of it. It was a peculiar feeling he could not explain, like knowing you were surrounded by water even though you could not see it. He knew, inwardly, that Pacific could not deny him the knowledge he had promised.

  “It’s done.” Pacific smiled broadly, showing for the first time a raw set of white teeth. “You’re mine tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Alfred agreed, nodding awkwardly while looking at Pacific. “Tomorrow. Yes. For sure.”

  “Well now.” Pacific looked at the gray sky. “I’ve a few things to prepare before tomorrow’s cathartic journey. We’ll meet up in front of your favorite breakfast place at eleven. Sharp. We’ll have a tight schedule to follow. Oh, yes …” He took something else from his pocket. “You will still need this.” He handed Alfred his cell phone. “Remember? Time’s a trickster. Reign over it, or be reigned over by it.”

  And, that said, Pacific stood and walked away, whistling joyfully.

  6

  Six Feet Above

  Alfred White snapped awake at the sound of a car horn. He looked around, his heart racing. The room was filled with light from the half-opened window. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them hard, and looked around again.

  What time was it? His bleary eyes set upon the bedside table, where he found his cell phone. He touched the screen and the device lit up.

  It was just a few minutes before ten. Alfred stared at the numbers in disbelief. Ten. He had never slept that late since … Well, he had never slept that late. Period.

  What happened to the alarm? Had he forgotten to set it the day before?

  Alfred didn’t waste time on those questions. He jumped out of bed, rushed toward the bathroom, stumbled on a shoe, and fell hard on his back. He dropped the phone, too.

  “Shit,” he groaned. He rose slowly, looking for his phone while still trying to understand what had happened. If he called Mr. Solidali now, he might still be able to explain why he was not—

  His phone’s alarm rang. Alfred frowned at it. He had set it to go off that late? Why?

  And then, he suddenly remembered everything.

  He had no job to go to. He had decided to stay on that bench the day before, and to ignore Mr. Solidali’s calls. That meant he’d quit. Plain and simple.

  Alfred slumped to the floor, now fully awake.

  He stayed there, completely still, a legion of thoughts storming inside his head.

  He reached out to his phone, turned off the alarm, and looked at the screen.

  There were five unanswered calls from Mr. Solidali, and two messages in his inbox. They were from his boss. Alfred bit his lips. Doubt crept up in the form of regret. The day before he had literally thrown away months of effort—his whole damn life—for what, exactly?

  Everything had seemed so clear in the moment: at the park, sitting on that bench, brooding about his life. But now it was muddy at best.

  A part of him started second-guessing what he had done. If he called Mr. Solidali now and made up some kind of believable excuse, would his project coordinator believe him?

  But why would Alfred do that? He didn’t want his job back. He had made a decision and intended to stick to it until the end. He would not go back to his old life. He would find out who the man called Pacific really was, and from there … Well, he would figure it out.

  Alfred breathed in and exhaled slowly. He erased all the messages without reading them and placed the cell phone back on the bedside table. He looked around, a bit lost. Now that his routine was broken, he felt disorganized and unsettled.

  He was jobless. He was free. He was completely and utterly mad.

  Alfred rose from the floor awkwardly, feeling stunned.

  It dawned on him only then that he had an appointment with Pacific.

  Alfred went to the bathroom, shaved out of habit, and took a quick shower. In front of his wardrobe, he moved away from the shirts and the trousers and instead grabbed a simple blue hoodie and a pair of jeans.

  He took his keys and went outside with zero ideas about what to expect from his day.

  He was surprised at the brightness outside. A cloudless sky reigned over everything. Alfred looked up with the same amazement one might manifest when looking at an aurora. The past few weeks he had grown accustomed to the rain and the cold. After all, he had seen little else since he had moved to the city.

  He started walking down Main Street without haste. The usual stream of businesspeople that packed the sidewalks in the early morning were nowhere to be found. In their stead were mostly very young or very old people, enjoying the day’s sun.

  By the time Alfred turned onto Keeper Street, it was around lunchtime. There was an even longer line of people waiting.

  Alfred watched as the Thai lady served a customer then looked around, excused herself with a quick gesture, and disappeared into the back of the truck.

  “The smell of the morning is in the air, and the sky is crisp blue.”

  Alfred turned toward the familiar voice. Pacific was walking with a confident stride toward him, wearing his usual dark outfit.

  “A magnificent day to start over, don’t you think?” Pacific pointed at the line of people. “There’s quite a few of them, mm-hm?” he said.

  “Yeah.” Alfred nodded. “You want to get something to eat?”

  “Indeed.”

  “In that case, it looks like we’re going to wait for a while.”

  “Nonsense. We’re going to get our lunch at once. But before that, take this.”

  Pacific handed him a camera with a strap attached to it. Alfred took it awkwardly. The camera was big and bulky, but incredibly light for its size. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “That, my young friend, is a DSLR camera.” Pacific touched the lens cap. “Light travels through this lens, to a mirror that sends the image to either the viewfinder or the image sensor. That’s how we get pictures in this marvelous age of gadgets and technology.”

  Alfred frowned. “I know what a camera is, thank you very much. What do you want me to do with it?”

  “You’ll be taking some pictures today.”

  “Really?” Alfred weighed up the camera. He seemed doubtful. “Okay, but just so you know, I’m not very good with these sorts of things. I mean, I can take decent pictures with my phone, but that’s as far as my photography skills go.”

  “It’s really simple. Look.” Pacific took back the camera and showed him how to handle it. “You aim, zoom, press the button halfway, and then press it all the way. Just like this. See? Piece of cake. Now listen up. When I say so, start taking pictures of the truck.”

  “The truck?” Alfred asked. “You mean the—”

  But Pacific wasn’t listening anymore. He moved away from Alfred and toward the last man waiting in line, a bald, short fellow with a stomach so vast, he surely didn’t need another khanom buang.

  Alfred followed Pacific awkwardly, wondering what was going to happen.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Pacific touched the man’s shoulder to get his attention. “Is this the famous Thai vendor of Keeper Street?”

  “I think so,” the fat man said, shrugging. “It’s the only one around as far as I know.”

  Pacific nodded briskly and turned toward Alfred. With a voice loud enough to be heard by anyone around, he said, “That’s it! This is the place! The poor man was brought to the hospital after eating here! Take a good angle of the cart, and a pano
ramic view of the street. What are you waiting for? Action!”

  Alfred jerked to attention and started taking pictures, aiming and shooting.

  “Excuse me,” a woman a few places away in the queue said, looking at Pacific. “Did you say hospital?”

  “Indeed.” Pacific nodded gravely. Then, turning toward Alfred, he said, “Don’t forget the inside of the truck! Take some more! Quickly, now. She’s still in the back. She won’t notice.”

  “A man, you said?” Another person joined the conversation. “He went to the hospital after eating here?”

  “Yes and yes,” Pacific answered, while people broke the line and crowded around him. “A man was sent to the hospital after eating a khanom buang sold at this very place.” He pointed to the food cart. “A severe case of strombolocktosis, it is assumed by the doctors. The poor fellow will be in bed for a full week and won’t be able to digest anything other than liquids for much longer than that.”

  An ever-increasing murmur spread like wildfire.

  “Good Lord,” said the woman who had first spoken. “Honey, let’s get out of here!” She pulled her husband with her and led the way out of Keeper Street.

  The rest of the people soon followed her, and by the time Alfred had shot the last picture, he and Pacific were the only ones left.

  “You can stop taking pictures now.”

  “What the hell is strombolocktosis?” Alfred asked, turning the camera off.

  “I have no idea.” Pacific shrugged. “But the word is long enough and sounds scary enough.”

  “What?” Alfred blurted. “You lied to them?”

  “Lied?” Pacific frowned. “I prefer to say I manufactured reality to my advantage, but you’re more than welcome to use that word if it suits you.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Alfred said, eyeing Pacific with disdain. “People will steer clear of this place now that you’ve spread the rumor. Nobody will buy from her again.”

  “Life is an unfair ride on the back of a reckless bull, my young friend.”

  “That is not funny.”

  “Oh, I see it now.” Pacific glanced at the food cart with a knowing smile. “You seem to be personally invested in the lady that sells you sugar. Mm-hm? That is cute. Now open your ears and close you heart. It’s wisdom time. Lies are cheap and abundant. Time, on the other hand, is a scarce resource, difficult to get. If a lie can buy me time, I won’t hesitate a second to use it. Capisce?”

  Alfred was not happy with the answer, but before he could say anything else, the Thai lady returned from the back of the truck. She looked around, searching for people who were no longer there.

  “Where is everybody?” she said.

  Pacific stepped forward and smiled a broad smile. “We’ll take two of your finest khanom buang, ma’am,” he said.

  The Thai lady didn’t seem to notice Pacific’s request. She was still looking for her customers.

  “Well?” Pacific snapped a finger and finally got the lady’s attention. “The clock is ticking.”

  The woman said something in Thai while glancing around one last time. Then she busied herself with the big spoon she used to stir the cream and put it on the crepes, and in less than two minutes she had the food ready for them.

  Pacific took one crepe, handed the other to Alfred, and walked away, leaving Alfred to pay. Alfred handed the lady a ten-dollar bill. Then, because he felt bad for her, he switched the ten-dollar bill with a twenty.

  The Thai lady waved her hands wildly. “That is way too mu—”

  “No, it’s not,” Alfred said resolutely. “Please take it. And … good luck.”

  Alfred caught up with Pacific, who had walked almost all the way back to Main Street. “You’re welcome, by the way,” Alfred said sarcastically.

  Pacific licked the cream off his lips. “Beg your pardon?”

  “The crepe? My money? You’re welcome.”

  “Oh, this?” Pacific looked at his lunch. He took another bite. “I always forget to pay for this kind of stuff.”

  “That makes you a thief. You know that, right?”

  “Hardly. I just know the fair price of things that don’t have one.”

  “Well, the fair price of the crepe you’re wolfing down is four dollars and fifty cents, just so you know.”

  “I sense annoyance,” Pacific said, studying Alfred’s gloomy expression. “Is money an issue?”

  “No, it’s not,” Alfred said quickly. He grimaced and added, “I mean, I’m not a money-making machine, plus I’m now jobless and … well … that’s not really the point I was trying to make. Anyway, where are we going?”

  They walked a while longer on Main Street before turning down a narrow, dark lane with patches of fresh asphalt here and there.

  “We have two meetings today,” Pacific declared. “Both will help you broaden your world and me understand a few more things about you.”

  “Meetings?” Alfred asked, puzzled. “With whom?”

  “Some call it Destiny, others Moira.” Pacific raised both hands as if mimicking a weight scale. “The name doesn’t really matter, only the outcome it brings people.”

  “Okay.” Alfred rolled his eyes. “What does that mean in plain English?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Here we are.”

  Alfred looked around. They had reached the very end of the street. There was nothing around except some parked cars, a broken fountain, and a convenience store.

  “There’s nothing here,” Alfred said, looking at the store, “unless you fancy a cheap hot dog and undercooked fries.”

  “See in front of the store?” Pacific pointed a few feet away from the entrance. “The Enterprise parked right there?”

  Alfred followed Pacific’s finger. Less than thirty yards away, there was a very expensive sports car. It was painted silver and looked like a spaceship.

  “Yeah,” Alfred said. “I see it.”

  Just then the store’s door opened, and a chubby middle-aged man wearing a bright blue suit came out. He walked toward the sports car and placed a paper bag on the hood, rummaging inside the bag until he found a gigantic cheeseburger and a can of soda.

  “See that fellow?” Pacific asked, pointing.

  “Yes, I do.” Alfred watched the fat man take a huge bite of the cheeseburger.

  “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Steve Rowsons Junior,” Pacific said, waving his hands in an elaborate, introductory gesture. “He’s forty-nine years old and was born in Atlanta, Georgia. He’s divorced, with two kids who haven’t seen him in a decade. He works as a financial adviser at the prestigious Thur’as & Sons Capital Group Limited, makes six figures per year, and hates his job. Yes. That should be enough to give you an insight into his life.”

  Alfred frowned. “How do you know all that stuff about him?”

  “I do my homework and ask the right questions to the right people.”

  “I still don’t understand why we are looking at him.”

  “I’m not looking at him.” Pacific lifted his chin slightly. “I’m looking above him.”

  “Above?” Alfred looked above Steve’s head. “What do you mean? There’s nothing above him.”

  “For now.” Pacific looked at Alfred. “Now listen. Think of what I said about that man. Think of his name, his age, his place of birth. Think of his profession. Then, while you’re doing it, picture a square in your mind. It can be any square of any color and size you want.”

  Alfred’s eyebrows shot up. “A square?”

  “A quadrilateral with four equal sides and four equal angles.”

  “I know what a square is. Look, I don’t get what you’re trying to—”

  “I should have mentioned this earlier,” Pacific said, raising a hand to interrupt Alfred. “This is not question time. You will follow my instructions, even though they might seem odd. You agreed on that, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember,” Alfred said resignedly. “What do you want me to do again?”

  “Just look above
his head—six feet above his head, to be exact. Think of what I said about that man, and picture a square.”

  Alfred shook his head. He looked at the man still eating his cheeseburger, and he looked at Pacific. “Can I just say this sounds very weird? I mean, I don’t mind—”

  “I know it sounds odd. Just do it.”

  Alfred was skeptical but did as he was told. He looked above Steve’s head and tried to picture the image of a square while thinking of what Pacific had said about Steve.

  One minute passed. Two minutes. Alfred felt really stupid staring at nothing.

  “Look, I don’t get it,” Alfred finally said, giving up. “What do you want me to see? Hm? There is absolutely nothing there, only air!”

  “You’re not thinking,” Pacific warned him. “I can feel it. You’re just wondering why you should do something that makes you look stupid. You want knowledge? Then be ready to accept it. Stop focusing on yourself. Concentrate. Remember to picture a square while you’re looking above him.”

  “I just don’t—”

  “Stop trying to rationalize everything, young man. There’s nothing logical in my request. Nothing. I’m asking you to step out of your comfort zone and to trust me. Can you do it or not?”

  Alfred rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.” He noticed Pacific’s grave expression. “Seriously this time. I promise. Picture a square. Look six feet above his head. Think about his life. Got it. On it.”

  Alfred closed his eyes and concentrated on forming the image of a square in his mind. It took him some time, but in the end he could see it. It was as big as a human torso, and silver like Steve’s car.

  When Alfred opened his eyes again, he had the imaginary square still sharp in his mind.

  He looked at Steve and recalled what Pacific had said about him.

  Middle aged.

  Divorced.

  Two children.

  Prestigious.

  Wealthy.

  Unhappy.

  Something flashed above Steve’s head for a fraction of a second. It was no more than a spark of light that disappeared before Alfred could be sure it had ever existed.