Lord of Time

by Michele Amitrani

  “Why are we in a graveyard?”

  “Mr. Steve Rowsons Junior will be buried here,” Pacific explained. He pointed to a bunch of tombstones a few yards away. “His parents are waiting for him six feet below the ground.”

  “You mean that man?”

  Pacific nodded. “I wonder what he saw in the last moments of his life, when he knew he was going to die? Were they the things he regretted doing? The things he didn’t do? The dreams he never pursued?” Pacific paused. He looked at the closest tombstone a few steps away and said, “He had a dream when he was younger, you know? Steve wanted to be an artist. A painter, to be precise. Oh, he wanted it so bad! He would wake up in the middle of the night with an idea, an image in his mind, and he would take a canvas and paint with passion for hours. He would pour himself in those paintings, and he would look at them with satisfaction and pride because he would see himself in them.” Pacific started walking toward the nearest tombstone. Alfred followed him.

  “His family told him he had no chance.” Pacific stopped in front of the tombstone. “His friends laughed at him when he confessed his passion. There was no future in his dream, they told him. No career, no money to be made. And somewhere along the way, Steve listened. He listened, and he changed. He decided his dream was too unrealistic, too childish. He decided to live a life other people had chosen for him. And so he went to finance school, got his degree, found a stable job, married a woman he never really loved, fathered two children he never really wanted, and lived unhappily ever after.”

  Pacific took the glove off his right hand and touched the surface of the tombstone. In fact, he wasn’t simply touching it—he was caressing it. One slow, gentle stroke after the other.

  “What are you trying to say?” Alfred took a step forward. He, too, was looking at the tombstone now. “That he would have been better off as a penniless bastard at the side of a street, selling paintings? You were the one who said art is just the icing on a cake.”

  “That is my take on it,” Pacific said. “Not Steve’s. Do you understand the difference?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m not Steve,” Pacific explained. “I didn’t live his life. But I guess this is all pointless now. There is no right or wrong answer when it comes to the end of a person’s journey. It’s like looking at footprints on a beach; the first wave on the sand wipes them out of existence. They might have never been there at all. Steve’s desire has turned into those footprints. It’s reduced to the shadow of a past that belongs to oblivion.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that is easy to judge a person when the corpse is cold and forgotten.” Pacific placed both hands on the tombstone, resting his weight on it. “Only a fool judges an apple when it is already rotten. I am but an observer of death and of all things that may have happened and didn’t. Tell me, Alfred White. Did you ever have a dream?”

  Alfred blinked, surprised by the question. “What?” he asked.

  “A dream,” Pacific repeated. “Have you ever had one?”

  The image of a young boy with a cowboy hat, holding a whip and following maps with a big, fat, red cross on it flashed before Alfred’s eyes. The memory came to him so naturally he couldn’t believe it was his.

  “Well?” Pacific looked at him expectantly.

  Alfred shifted uncomfortably. He looked bashful.

  “I know you’re thinking something,” Pacific teased. “Don’t be shy, now. Set the thought free.”

  Alfred’s reluctance was plain, but eventually he nodded. “Well, now that you mention it, when I was ten I wanted to be a treasure hunter. I wanted to explore exotic places, solve riddles, and find impossibly precious treasure I would sell to museums for glory and fame. You know, like Indiana Jones.”

  “Yes,” Pacific said. “I get the picture. What stopped you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What stopped you from becoming Indiana Jones?”

  Alfred blinked, lost. Was that a serious question?

  “Well?” Pacific pressed him. “What stopped you?”

  “I don’t know.” Alfred said defensively. “It was just a bunch of movies, I guess. Just a young boy’s fancy.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it.” Pacific took off his sunglasses, his gray eyes fixed on Alfred. “I’ll ask you once more. What stopped you from becoming Indiana Jones?”

  Alfred didn’t answer. He had no idea what Pacific wanted him to say.

  The tall man looked at the tombstone one last time then put his glove and sunglasses back on. “When you have an answer to that question,” he said, “you’ll have figured out what most people never will.” Pacific looked around, taking everything in. “This place you call a graveyard is a museum of lost things, broken and neglected. It is full of countless Steves, men and women who died without realizing their full potential, bringing to the grave their true selves. It’s sad, but it’s also how things work in the world you live in, the world of commitments, of haste, of denial and delusion.”

  Alfred followed Pacific’s gaze, and for the first time he really looked at the graveyard. There were bodies here, dead people rotting beneath their feet. Alfred understood what Pacific was saying. In a way, he could even relate to it. Very few of the people he knew considered themselves happy or fulfilled. His coworkers at the Spear were good examples of that. Most of them were always complaining and doing nothing to change. They were unwilling to change themselves and their circumstances. But time was the constant that united them all. In the end, they all ended up there. Broken things, Pacific had said. Broken and neglected. Dead things.

  Pacific turned to Alfred. “Think of what you saw here as the first lesson I will teach you, the first piece of knowledge I will give you. Every choice people make has a consequence in the book of their life. They can write on that book, but they can’t change what’s written. At best, they can tear off pages. And that is what Steve did for most of his life. He wrote stories on that book and tore pages apart every single day of his adult life.”

  Pacific’s words were difficult to decipher, but they made sense in a peculiar sort of way. Alfred just needed to figure out how. And for that, he was going to need time. He knew that now.

  Pacific zoomed in with his camera and took one picture of the graveyard. He looked at the picture’s preview, nodded in satisfaction, then looked back at Alfred. “So far I showed you a glimpse of the truth you want to unveil. You don’t understand it, and will never fully understand it if you’re not willing to make sacrifices. Now listen carefully. This is at the very core of the mentorship I’ve offered you. Sacrifices must be the bedrock of your knowledge. Without sacrifices, this journey means nothing.”

  Alfred looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean? What kind of sacrifices?”

  Pacific tapped Alfred’s forehead with his index finger. “Your curiosity is a powerful engine for change, but it will never be enough if it’s not propelled by the will to sacrifice what you are now for the promise of what you might became. You’re still trapped in the same world of fear that killed Steve. I can teach you how to free yourself from that fear, but you’ll have to trust me. Now it is time for you to make a choice, and you must understand the importance of it. When we shook hands yesterday, we made an agreement that we are both bound to. You agreed to give me one day of your life so that you could witness the truth behind my existence, and I agreed to give you the knowledge you seek by the time the sun set. After what you saw, a part of you wants to bail out. I can feel it. That is understandable. You saw a person die, and it shook you deeply. The part of you that never wanted to meet me, now wants to walk away from this commitment.” Pacific took two steps toward Alfred. “I’m giving you the chance right here, right now. Say that you forsake your commitment, and I’ll release you from it.”

  As Pacific stepped toward him, Alfred unconsciously took two steps backward.

  “What do you want, Alfred White?”

  Alfred’s heart st
arted palpitating.

  Pacific was right. A part of Alfred didn’t want anything to do with the shady fellow who knew when people were going to die. It was the same part that wanted to fill out papers in the security of his cubicle. And yet, another part of him wanted the opposite.

  So what did he want?

  Alfred looked at the tombstone in front of him.

  “Your face is turning as white as your name,” Pacific pointed out to him. “Are you going to be sick again?”

  Alfred swallowed hard. “I … I’m fine,” he said, his voice wavering. He looked at Pacific, trying not to blink.

  Pacific, a man who seemed to exist outside the fabric of reality, who could rewind time at his own pleasure, who sought death as a commodity. A puzzle wrapped in a mystery.

  In a matter of weeks this man had upended Alfred’s life. In a way, Pacific had awakened Alfred, showing him where his life was headed: into a descending spiral of regret and sorrow.

  But.

  There was so much more than that.

  What price was he willing to pay to continue his journey with Pacific? What was the trade-off for the knowledge he was seeking? A slow walk on the rim of madness?

  He had no idea what Pacific had in store for him. Alfred knew he might not be ready for it. But he didn’t care.

  He was not going back now.

  “I don’t want to end up like them,” Alfred finally said. “I don’t want to be the one tearing pages apart. I want to change. I want to learn. I’m willing to sacrifice what I am now for the promise of who I might become.”

  Pacific looked at Alfred for a long moment, and he smiled. “Then you might,” he said simply. “Come, my promising protégé. There is someone I really want you to meet.”

  8

  Hodie

  They walked off church property and back to the residential neighborhood. Pacific glanced up and down the street then hailed a passing cab.

  “Saint Expeditus Hospital,” Pacific instructed the driver as he and Alfred got in the back seat.

  “I’m hungry,” Pacific said to no one in particular when the driver started the engine. He began searching inside his coat. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really,” Alfred said.

  “Where did I put them? Oh, yes … Here.”

  Pacific emerged with a bagel, a zipper bag with banana chips, and a small water bottle.

  “Where did you get all that stuff from?” Alfred eyed the food suspiciously.

  “A coat is worth only as much as the number of pockets it hides,” Pacific said while munching on his bagel. “And mine hides many.”

  Pacific finished the chips and the bagel in less than two minutes then drank eagerly from his water bottle.

  Alfred realized only then how thirsty he was. “Can I have a sip of that?” he asked. “Is it water?”

  “Water?” Pacific raised an eyebrow, looking at Alfred with amusement. “Do you think I’m some kind of plant? Water is boring.”

  “Okay.” Alfred rolled his eyes in exasperation. “What exciting thing are you drinking, then?”

  Pacific peeked inside the container. “Here I’ve got two delicious raw eggs blended with a ripe avocado, blueberry, spinach, banana, and carrot juice, if you want to sip at this ambrosia.” He offered the bottle to Alfred, who tentatively sniffed at it.

  “Good grief!” The young man jerked his head back as if struck by an invisible punch.

  “What?” Pacific looked at him curiously.

  “It smells like a used pair of socks filled with fresh vomit.” He raised a hand, warding away the awful smell. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

  Pacific shrugged off Alfred’s comment and continued drinking.

  For the next five minutes, the tune on the radio lulled Alfred’s thoughts into a stream of blurred images and sensations.

  He looked out the window at the city streaming by, an ever-changing mixture of people, cars, and buildings.

  Alfred was thinking quietly but profoundly of events up to that point. He lifted a hand and realized it was shaking, a remnant of the dark feeling that had seized him just moments before. He balled his hand into a fist. “You’re not in Kansas anymore,” he whispered to himself, amused by his own thought. He looked up and found Pacific looking back at him.

  They remained in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Then Pacific put his small bottle back inside his coat, took off his sunglasses, and started polishing them with a piece of cloth.

  “You have a question,” he said matter-of-factly. “But you are afraid to ask it. There are no safe questions anymore, Alfred White, only dangerous ones. You can either venture and ask it, or let your skull burst open with unsatisfied curiosity.” He smiled, as if envisioning the event happening right there and then. “Either way, I’ll have fun watching you deal with your thirst for knowledge.”

  Alfred shifted uncomfortably on his seat and glanced at the driver, who was busy talking with somebody on the phone. “Could you have saved him?” he asked in a low whisper. “I mean Steve. Could you have done anything to avoid his death?”

  “Ah.” Pacific nodded. “We get to that at last.” He kept polishing his sunglasses with a swift movement of his fingers. “Before I answer, you have to understand something important. A piece of information without which everything falls apart.”

  “What is that?”

  “An undeniable fact of life,” Pacific said gravely. “All human beings are born with a specific time balance. It can be eighty years or eight minutes. It doesn’t matter. When the time balance turns to zero, your life ends.”

  “A time balance?” Alfred asked, puzzled. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Think of it like a bank account balance,” Pacific said. “When your bank account has zero money left, you are broke. So it is with time. When your time account balance is empty, you’re dead. This is the easiest way I can explain it to you. Some are born with a very limited time balance. Others have plenty of time before death kisses them goodbye.”

  Pacific ran a hand idly over his smooth chin. “Now on to your question. You’re asking me if I could have saved Steve.” He pronounced the word saved carefully, as if it were something balanced on the tip of a very tall mountain. “Yes, I could have,” he admitted. “I could have saved him because I know how to handle time, and I have some to spare. Remember what I said? Death is a commodity, a resource that can be used. But …” Pacific put his sunglasses back on.

  “What?” Alfred said eagerly. “But what?”

  “When you see a beggar on the street, do you empty your pockets for that person just because he or she is asking you for money?” Pacific looked at Alfred expectantly.

  Alfred shrugged. “Of course not,” he said. “But I don’t really understand the analogy. We’re not talking about giving a few dollars to a homeless guy so that he can buy a beer or two. We are talking about saving a life.”

  “There is no difference to me,” Pacific said, a smile brushing the sharp corners of his mouth. “I’m not a charity, my young friend. I’m a business owner. A successful business owner, at that. Obviously, I don’t deal with money—I deal with time—but the basics are the same. Like any successful business owner, after many years of activity I’ve managed to save a surplus I can use as I please. But I don’t go out and squander it. Time, like the money in your wallet, is a finite resource. In fact, time is our scarcest resource, and one of the most mistreated assets available to man. But this is the point. Scarcity makes it a precious and hard thing to give up for someone like me, who knows its true value. You see, you don’t give money to a beggar, because you know he is going to waste it on booze. But you could lend some hard-earned time to a select group in exchange for something useful to you. Or you can do the opposite: ask for some time in exchange for something the person needs, something you can provide. When it comes to a time transaction, the sky is the limit.”

  “You said something useful to you,” Alfred pointed out. “What would that be?”

&n
bsp; “A favor, a connection, a word said by the right person at the right time. A door opened without asking too many questions. It could be anything I need at that moment. It’s hard to hammer a nail without a hammer, don’t you think? The need changes as the situation calls for it.”

  Alfred’s head started spinning. He rubbed it and squeezed his eyes shut. “So you’re saying that you can give your own time to others, or you can get time out of people in exchange for something else?”

  “Yes.” Pacific bobbed his head once. “I can take time away from other people or give away some of my surplus of time, depending on the situation.”

  “But only if you know you’re getting something in return.”

  “True again.”

  Alfred thought a bit about that. “So you could have saved Steve by giving him some of your time. But you didn’t, because—”

  “He had nothing to offer me,” Pacific said simply.

  “Right.” Alfred nodded awkwardly, trying to wrap his head around the idea. It wasn’t easy to think about time that way, but it made a strange kind of sense. It was like one of the many projects Alfred had worked on in the past few weeks. Some of them didn’t get past the evaluation phase and never saw the light of the day. Projects without potential were thrown away and left to die in the trash bin.

  “What about the day of the déjà vu?” Alfred asked suddenly.

  “What about it?”

  “You said you use time as a currency, and that time demands time in return. Does it mean that the day of the déjà vu, you used some of your surplus to rewind time?”

  “Very good.” A smile broke onto Pacific’s face. “You’re digging deeper. Yes, I had to use time to bend time to my liking. So I did yesterday, to embed the lemon in the reality of its moment. Quite an investment, now that you point it out.”