Time Pt.1

Everyone knows the time here. Well, everyone knows their time. It's common knowledge there's a difference between “Whats the time?” versus “What's your time?” They just hear it internally, a quiet voice that only speaks when something changes. It can be anything, any tiny change in one's life can change the time the voice tells them. It will even speak when nothing is happening, the person is completely unaware that someone, somewhere, did or did not do something they were going to. The voice speaks vaguely, unfortunately. It's never an exact date, more of an estimate.

A man once dropped a pack of cigarettes in a puddle, the voice spoke “70 years.” Before, the voice last claimed he had “10 years.” As he walked to the store, he thought of the time he would have with his wife and his son. They'd only been married for a couple years and he was about to turn one year old. He also had been thinking of quitting when the chest pains began, soon after his son was born. As he reached front in line at the store to buy more, he heard the voice again, “45 years.” As he left the convenience store, he thought he still had all the time in the world and lit up one more. He took a few puffs and his chest started hurting again. The voice whispered “3 years,” several years less than he had before.

He was coughing when his panic set in. He threw the smoke on the ground and dropped the box in a trash bin in front of the store. He swore his life and time to his family, cursing cigarettes and swearing off them forever. But the voice did not speak again, despite he swore off his addiction and walked away. Yet “3 years” was still ringing in his head. Furious that his decisions made no difference when he was going to die, he went back. After fishing them out of the bin, he lit up one more. Though his chest pains were getting worse, he threw caution to the wind for a few final puffs. The voice finally spoke again, “10 minutes.”

The shock sent the man into a coughing fit. He coughed and wheezed so hard, he felt as if his chest exploded. His body had gone numb and he couldn't catch his breath. He seized up along the side of the store as he tried to crawl to the front for help. He wasn't found for half an hour. He died from a
heart attack, wanting to hold his son again.

Then again, there was a woman who had aggressive breast cancer. Her time had been decreasing for ten years, but, through the help of chemotherapy and surgery, the voice had been counting upwards again. 4 months, 8 months, 2 years, 5 years. Once she reported the voice said 25 years, her doctor told her the cancer was gone. She was overjoyed. She cried in her daughter's arms at the
appointment. But as she approached the doors out of the hospital, the voice spoke again.

“10 years.”

She stopped in her tracks but assumed the matter would resolve itself, and resumed walking to the door. Yet, every step out of the hospital decreased the time whispered in her head. 6 years, 3 years, 5 months, 1 month. When the voice said “6 hours,” she was staring the door and told her daughter to get the doctor. Worried her mother's cancer was rapidly coming back or worse, she ran to get the doctor. Did the doctor miss something? Was there something wrong with one of the machines?

When the woman reached out and touched the door, the voice said menacingly “10 minutes.” She felt chills run down her spine. She felt paralyzed. All this time and the cancer hadn't left. Her heart was racing as she tried to control it. She stepped away from the door, “1 hour” she heard.

As the doctor ran down the hall, he grabbed her and escorted her to his office. As they got further away, her time started increasing again. As she stepped into his office, a Sedan careened into the windows of the lobby, crushing the door and frame that the woman was standing at 10 minutes before. The voice gently whispered “27 years” as they stared at the carnage behind them.

It's strange how the time calculates but it is never wrong. They all agree, though, there's an uneasy
feeling when the voice says the word “minutes.” Almost as if it knew, as if it were afraid, too. Everyone's time fluctuates like this, most people eventually get used to the time juggling back and forth. Most get used to it and accept their fate. Everyone's time comes and goes with the tide. Everyone except Milton Graham.

See , Milton never liked people. He never liked people because he never liked germs. He sought love and acceptance but found great difficulty in obtaining it when all the other boys and girls were so constantly dirty and unappealing to him. He found love and acceptance at his home with his parents and that suited him just fine. It changed for him though when his parents died in a home robbery after he graduated college.

An only child with few friends, Milton struggled through school. More often than not, he had only the love of his family and the hope for the future to fuel him through. He worked hard and found his way into a good university. A few years later, he had a practical degree and a well off job he loved. The day he received the call confirming he was hired was the same day he found out his parents passed.

He lived alone, and was now more alone than ever before. He slept in a white room, with white sheets and a white comforter. Other than that he had few possessions, but he did possess one thing most did not.

His time hadn't changed in ten years. Not since he was a teenager had his voice said anything less than that he would die until after he was 100 years old. His voice has never said anything less than 78. Higher than anyone he'd ever met, or at least anyone he'd known who felt comfortable talking about such personal things. 78 years.

At first he took many chances and was a self-described “Thrill Seeker” when he was younger. The worst he did, though, was vandalize the side of a new business in his neighborhood with his initials in spray paint. He escaped unscratched but denounced his crime-ridden lifestyle and chose to stick to schooling. Since his youth, he never smoked, he never drank, eats healthy, runs regularly, and didn't make waves with others. He most recently described himself as “Wallpaper.” This is what keeps Milton's number so high and his voice so quiet.

When he moved across the country for his new job, it was the biggest risk he'd ever taken. His parents were no longer the anchor he held upon. He was saddened by the loss, but recognized great opportunity to find love in this new world. Maybe in a friend, maybe in a lover, either would be new to Milton.

When he arrived, though, he was summoned to return home and claim his family's possessions, or at least what the burglar had left behind. He barely had time to unpack before he had to leave again, the boxes in his living room were evidence of this. He didn't even bother packing a new bag, he just brought the travel bag for the flight to his new home. Which was fine, Milton only reached halfway in his book on the trip.

He examined himself in his bathroom mirror before he left to catch his flight home, checking everything. His number dropped from 78 to 77 on the flight over so he wanted to make sure he was okay. From his black hair to his buck teeth, all the way down his 6-foot frame, the voice in his head said nothing. He almost weighed himself but told himself he had always been this skinny and should not worry.

He put on sunglasses to protect his eyes and even put sunscreen on, even though he knew he'd be inside an airplane or airport for most of the next day or two. His flight was only a few hours away when he decided to leave his apartment. As he shut the door behind him, an ominous voice in his head spoke up for the first time since arrived in the new city.

“76 years.”

He stopped. He considered reentering his apartment, closing the door, and never leaving, but missed seeing his parents. Whether it be in a photo book or not, he wanted to see them again. So he turned and walked to the elevator instead. The voice said nothing as he left his building. It said nothing when he hailed his cab. And it said nothing when he arrived at the airport. Although, as he checked his ticket, he saw his flight was delayed 4 hours. As he panned the reaction of the delay on the other passengers, some annoyed, others terrified, his voice finally said “78 years” again. He felt a wave of relief, because he was afraid he had somehow contracted the Plague on the way to the airport.

He sat at the only seat available, between an Indian man in a suit, sleeping upright using his briefcase as a pillow, and a blonde woman in a black dress, covered in magazines. Her foot tapped gently as she anxiously stared at the arrival/departure board above them. Milton smiled at them as he sat down, but neither noticed. He placed his carry-on bag underneath his seat like the others, keeping his ticket in his hands. The rumble of hundreds of people walking back and forth vibrated his seat as they passed.

He stared at the board, hoping the four hour delay wouldn't leave him stuck in this germ-ridden airport. He couldn't help but notice the sweet perfume from the woman on his right. He found the scent intoxicating, nostalgic, almost as if he had smelled it before. It made him remember a time in grade school, a crush of his must have been wearing it that day. He remembered her pretty blonde hair and how she'd always been the nice girl to him. He thought of her smile and how she would be the only one he'd let sit with him at lunch. He remembered Phoebe.

“Are you wearing sunscreen?” A voice ripped him out of his daydream. The woman in black next to him had smelled the familiar scent as he secretly thought of her perfume. When he turned to say something, he noticed her eyes. They were as blue as the girl he'd known from his youth.

“I'm s...sorry?” Surprised, he fumbled over his words a moment.

“You're wearing sunscreen. I can smell it. I work at a tanning salon, I smell that smell more than a sane person should.” She chuckled. Her foot was still tapping. Somehow, Milton could hear it over the sound of the buzz of a thousand conversations taking place in the terminal.

“What an odd thing to say to someone. But yes, I am.” He spoke proudly. Not because he was wearing sunscreen, but because he was managing a conversation with a person, even more so, a beautiful woman. “Are you... uh, waiting on Flight 90?”

“I am, actually! But I will be transferring onto a different flight after we land.” She started digging through her purse. She pulled out a pack of gum and took a stick out. She offered it to Milton who politely declined.

“Oh that's nice. I'll actually be getting off when we get there. I have... um... legal things to take care of.” He spoke solemnly.

“That's spooky. Are you a fugitive? Are you going back to kill those who wronged you?” She chuckled as she put her purse back to her said as Milton twiddled with the ticket in his fingers, torn between watching the flight delays and his new conversational partner.

“W-what? No!” He was almost taken aback at the accusation. “If I can be honest, my parents have recently... um... my parents recently passed.”

“Oh...” She turned her head down. They sat for a moment. She stared at her rapidly tapping feet as he crossed his arms and placed his attention entirely on the board. When their flight moved from a 4 hour delay to a 1 hour delay, she sighed with relief along with a dozen others in the terminal, terrifying a few others. Milton rubbed his eyebrow, annoyed that it wasn't already at the terminal.

“I'm sorry about your parents. I was only joking.” The woman said quietly. Milton continued to stare
only at the board. “You know, my time has been 14 years for a while now. Today, it slowly went to 4 hours as I came here. When I saw our flight was delayed exactly four hours, I've just sort of been panicking. I had it at 20 years until I started smoking and it only got worse. Eventually, I started chewing gum instead and it put me at 14 years when I only had a couple years left.”

Milton turned to face her. She sniffled a bit and failed to hide it in a cough. The Indian man next to him stirred for a moment, readjusted his briefcase, but fell back to sleep.

“I make dumb jokes when I panic. I'm sure it's nothing, but it's worrisome. I have to go home but I'm
afraid of dying, you know? It's never been this close before. Now that the board says the plane's only an hour away, I now have to worry about the plane crashing into a mountain instead of on a landing strip.” She tried to smile but wiped her eyes instead. “I'm sorry for talking your ear off. It's part of that whole anxiety thing.”

“It's okay,” Milton spoke quietly as he turned back to her, “Why are you going home?”

“My brother died overseas. His funeral is in a couple days. So I guess I sort of know how you feel.
I don't know what I'd do without my dad, though.”

“It's okay. Don't feel bad. I barely knew them.” Milton lied. He never really had to deal with a crying
woman except for his mother. He remembered that lying to her helped her through dark times. Once, she was worried Milton couldn't afford school when his scholarship was revoked and given to someone else. He told her it was an mistake on the school's behalf and he still had his scholarship. In reality, he started taking advantage of online gambling under the name “Stacy719.” His logic was that men on the internet never expect women to be competent gamblers, so the pot's always bigger when there's a “lady” at the table. He paid for his entire schooling this way.

“I'm still sorry. I just worry. There's so much death in the world. The time only gives you an idea.”
She sniffled and looked at the board. “It's such a vague time frame. So why are we so afraid when it's going to happen any time anyway. One minute, you have years and suddenly, you hear it say
'minutes' and you know its almost over. It's terrifying and comforting at the same time I guess because at least you know.”

“Yeah, I can see that. You know, I've never had an existential conversation in an airport terminal with a stranger before. This is a first for me.” Milton joked. She smiled. When she smiled, he remembered the girl from his childhood, Phoebe. It was wide, he could see almost every tooth but it felt so sincere, it didn't matter. He could just feel it inside himself.

“Me, too. I'm sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable.” She pulled a wipe from her bag and patted her
face a bit. Some of her make-up came off with the moisture of her tears. She sniffled. “Since my brother went, I've just had a lot on my mind.”

“I'm sorry for your loss. But, and I know this is probably inappropriate, you're just so familiar. But, is
your name Phoebe?” Milton blurted out. It was sitting in he back of his mind and he couldn't help but ask.

“It's fine and, actually, no, but I do like that name. I'm Whitney. And you must be... Milton?” She
leaned back a bit more in her chair and stretched her left arm.

“Yes! How did you know?” Milton was dumbfounded, and stared at her as if she were some sort of
mystic.

“It says it on the ticket in your hands.” She smiled slyly. She cracked her knuckles when she was
done stretching as Milton noticed the ticket still in his hands with his name in big bold print.“I love cracking my knuckles. It feels so good.”

“I prefer to not, it can give you arthritis.” Milton shuttered uncomfortably at the sound.

“I get that, I respect that. I just believe since we all know when we're gonna go, preventing to
do so seems a little futile.” She proceeded to crack her neck as well. She must have been sitting here a while.

“It's not about preventing death, it's more about making the suffering a little more tolerable.” He crossed his arms again. She just smiled at him.

“I'm sorry if I upset with the sounds my body make.” She teased as she took a quick glance at his
ticket again, “I have worse news for you though, 'Mo' Money Milton-aire'.” She smiled and licked her teeth, as she dug through her purse.

“Please don't call me that.” Milton said as she rummaged through her bag. The man next to Milton let out a very audible belch in his slumber. Milton gagged. She pulled out her ticket and turned to him.

“I like that nickname, and you should get used to it because for the next few hours,” She opened her ticket and pointed under her name to her seat number, “You're stuck next to me.” He stared at her seat number. She was the window and he was the aisle.

“But that's good” She continued, “because I hate the tiny planes, so you'll get to listen to my
rambling.”

“Oh... shit!” It felt foreign leaving Milton's lips, he doesn't swear often. It felt almost as if he was trying to impress her. It was odd, he wasn't used to this sort of attention. He knew few women in college. He hadn't felt this need to impress a woman since he was younger. He hadn't thought of another woman since his mother passed.

“Don't worry, Milton. I'll take it easy on you. It's only polite" She smiled and turned to put her ticket back in her bag.

TBC