The old man wandered down from the hills and into the city. He had about him that air of backwoods backwardness that makes city-folk so uncomfortable. After he’d walked a good ways, he sat down on a bench near Benton Park and watched the pedestrians go by.
As he watched them run from one destination to another, the old man’s worn brow creased with confusion. His head swiveled as he watched the young people dashing to and fro. A few cars raced by on Benton Road, and the old man seemed quite confused by these as well. He stroked his long, gray beard thoughtfully, and pulled down his furry hat against the chill December wind.
He’d been sitting there for about twenty minutes – occasionally attracting confused looks of his own from the people who jogged by him – when, suddenly, the clock on the tower at the corner of the park struck one. It gave one rapid chime; not a bell-chime, but a sharp, electronic sound with a tin edge that sounded like two pieces of tinfoil brushing against one another. The man stared up at the clock, and was still staring long after the chime had faded. His eyes were drawn to the letters “CTk,” which were printed very large on the clock’s face.
After a while, the old man got up from the bench, re-adjusted his hat, and crossed through the park to a little restaurant he’d seen on his way into the city. He followed the sidewalk past the wooded back corner of Benton park and found the diner, called “UpStreet.”
Inside, people chattered loudly over hamburgers and hot dogs. The old man’s eyes widened with surprise as he listened to the great rapidity with which they talked. All of their sentences seemed to be compressed into long, rambling single words.
“DadHadAnotherHeartAttack…” overheard the old man as he passed an overly-chipper couple. He seated himself at the counter and yanked a napkin out of the dispenser to wipe his cold nose with. As he did, the waitress flitted over, regarded him with concern and confusion, and disappeared again. As she trotted – actually, it was more of a jog – away, the old man looked up to make his order, but by then, she had hurried off to another customer. The old man cast a weary look in her direction, and waited for her to return.
She did so suddenly, hopping up to the counter with her little pad and pen already in hand.
“HelloSirWhatCanIGetYou?” It took a moment for him to figure out just what the woman had said, and in that time, she began to tap her foot impatiently. The tapping seemed too rapid, and it made the old man uncomfortable.
“I’d like a cheeseburger, dear.”
“ThankYouComingRightUp.” He sighed at her when his back was turned and closed his eyes, massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers.
Suddenly, the door flew open behind him, and a pair of young women burst in. The old man ducked, thinking that only a pair of stickup-artists would throw a door open that violently, but the women simply galloped over to a booth in the corner and began talking excitedly. By now, the old man looked very bewildered, and extremely ill at ease. He took off his furry hat and started idly picking at the lining.
Suddenly, his cheeseburger arrived. The waitress practically threw it at him, and slammed a bottle of water on the counter next to it, then hurried off again. He took a cautious bite, made a face, and put the burger back down, then attempted to flag down the waitress. She already had the irritated look on her face when she drew up to the counter.
“YesWhatCanIDoForYou?”
“This burger is cold,” complained the old man. In the time it took him to say that, the waitress’s indignant look deepened.
“IfItWasHotYou’dHaveToEatSlow!” Before he could reply, she was off yet again. His appetite somewhat diminished, the old man slapped a five-dollar bill onto the counter and left without collecting his change.
From UpStreet, the old man meandered through the park again, following the elliptical path inscribed in the rectangular green. The park centered on a statue – the old man had no doubt that this was the famous Benton after whom the park was named – and paths radiated out in eight directions from it. The old man noticed that he was the only one on the curved path. All the other people in the park jogged – or bicycled – along the straight paths.
That sense of great hurriedness bothered the old man deeply. He’d noticed a similar phenomenon ten years ago, the last time he’d come down out of the hills, but even then there had been people perfectly willing to take their time and walk the long way. Now, though, everybody seemed to be in a tremendous hurry. He hunched up his shoulders in a protective gesture and pulled the fur hat back onto his head.
As he passed the clock tower on his way to find a hotel, he was startled to hear it chime again. Two chimes, this time. The old man looked up, incredulous, and saw that, indeed, the clock had just struck two. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared up, brow furrowed. He was deeply troubled. Had it really taken him an hour to walk from one corner of the park to the other and back? He scanned Benton Park, and realized that, even at his comparatively slow pace, the round trip should not have taken more than thirty minutes, or perhaps forty-five at the outside.
As he prepared to march on, shaking his head with disbelief, his eyes fell on a man who stood out in the rapidly-thinning crowd. He was a young man, no older than thirty, wearing a sweater the color of strong tea. He had a long face and a crop of well-combed brown hair which he kept brushing away from his perpetually-knitted brow. His face bore a strange expression that spoke both of confusion and deep, deep concern. But what made him stand out from the crowd was his speed. He was a remarkably slow walker. He looked like he might even be walking as slowly as the old man himself. The old man moved in the slow man’s direction instinctually, but the slow man took fright and turned abruptly onto Peck Avenue, the look of concern growing to dominate his countenance.
The old man stopped at the corner under the bell tower and watched the slow man make his way down Peck Avenue, much faster people passing him on either side every few seconds. The way the man’s hands were jammed into his pockets, the old man thought he must be hiding something. That would certainly have explained his wariness.
The old man’s head jerked to the right as he heard a shout from the other side of Peck Avenue. Two policemen were now standing at the edge of Benton Park and staring intensely at the slow walker.
“ExcuseMeSirStopRightThere!” cried one of them, and they took off at an incredibly fast run towards the slow man, who was only able to manage a quick jog. He turned on his heel and ran back up Peck Avenue, towards the corner across from which the old man stood. Just as he rounded this corner, one of the cops grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him up against the brick wall of an antique shop.
“HeyBuddyJustWhatYouThinkYou’reDoing?” asked the second cop. The slow man’s eyes flicked from one cop to the other, and once – alarmingly – to the old man, whom the cops thankfully didn’t notice. When it became clear that nobody was going to help him, the slow-walker took his hands out of his pockets and brushed them on the legs of his pants. The cops backed up, and let his feet fall back to the sidewalk.
“IaskedYouAQuestionWhatAreYouDoing?”
“IWasJust WalkingOfficer.” The slow man’s words weren’t quite as fast as the cops’, and every now and then, a separation emerged between them. The cops appeared to regard this with great suspicion.
“WhatHaveYouGotInYourPocket?”
“NothingOfficer.”
“EmptyOutYourPockets.”
“IHaven’tGot Anything Officer.”
“EmptyOutYourPockets!” The man bowed his head and thrust his left hand ruefully into his left pocket, producing what looked like a wallet and a set of keys. Hesitantly, he stuck his right hand in his right pocket, and produced something which he kept clutched tightly in his fist. The cops leaned closer, and the man bowed his head lower.
By now, the old man had become quite interested, and had cautiously crossed the street, where he pretended to be window-shopping for antiques.
“What’sThatThere?” asked one cop.
“NothingOfficer.”
“What’sThatThere?” demanded the other cop, and grabbed the young man’s wrist, pulling it from behind him, and forcing open his hand. The two cops stared awestruck at the object he held, which the old man recognized after a moment as a pocket-watch. One of the cops remained open-mouthed, but his friend seized the slow-walker angrily by the shoulders.
“SirAreYouAwareThatPossessionOfANon-certifiedTimepieceIsACrime?” The slow man did not speak, but merely bowed his head even lower, so that his chin was almost resting on his chest.
“AllRightTurnAround?” demanded the other cop, readying his handcuffs. Just then, the first cop glanced through the window of the antique shop and saw the old man there. Leaving his friend to cuff the slow-walker, he rounded the corner and came up next to the old man, who was now feeling extremely uneasy.
“WhatAreYouLookingAtThere?” asked the cop.
“That chair!” said the old man, pointing at a hideous cane chair by the window.
“What’sWrongWithYourMouth?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it.”
“WhyYouTalkSoSlow?” The old man was distracted as a car went skidding around the corner, burning rubber as it sped from Benton Street onto Peck Avenue, racing quickly out of sight. “AnswerMe!”
“To my knowledge, I’m not talking slowly…” The cop gave him the same sour look he’d seen on the waitress’s face.
“EmptyOutYourPockets!” The old man complied. All he had was a small handful of money and a faded driver’s license. After returning his possessions, the cop went back around the corner, making sure to shoot him a suspicious glare through the window of the antique shop. He then returned to his friend, who had by that time handcuffed the young man and read him his rights. They waited there on the sidewalk for a few minutes, until a cruiser appeared from nowhere, squealed to a stop, and disgorged two more officers. One of them pushed the slow-walker into the back of the car while the other waited behind the wheel. Once the rear door was closed again, the cop got back in and the first cop – the one who’d yelled to the slow man to begin with – pointed around the corner at the old man, who suddenly felt compelled to run. He had a feeling, though, that that would cause trouble, so he stood there obediently, fidgeting with his furry hat, his shoulders hunched up protectively.
The cruiser roared around the corner and skidded to a stop again, this time in front of the old man. The passenger cop got out and looked meaningfully up and down him, then stepped up until their shoes were nearly touching. He was much taller than the old man and had a face like a brick building.
“WhatAreYouDoingOld-timer?” demanded the passenger-cop. The old man looked confused.
“I’m just standing here!” he contested. The passenger-cop leaned even closer. He had breath that smelled of rancid spearmint, and it made the old man feel sick.
“WhatDidYouSayToMe?” The old man felt more confused than ever.
“I said I’m just standing here!”
“HowDareYouTalkToAnOfficerofthelawInThatManner! You’reUnderArrestForAssaultingApoliceofficer!” The cop spun the old man around, slapped cuffs on his wrists, and shoved him into the back of the police car with the slow-walker, who sat there with his head still hung low. Then, the police car sped off, took a sudden, lurching turn, and bolted down Carrington Avenue.
The driver didn’t seem to have any interest in obeying the speed limit, and the few times the old man was able to steal a glance at the speedometer, he saw that it was hovering around a hundred and twenty miles an hour. The old man shivered, and wiggled his head to try to loosen his collar. Suddenly, he felt very nervous, and breathing was becoming difficult.
Before he could faint, though, the police car suddenly skidded to a stop, then darted to the right and bounded up a ramp into a parking structure. Before he was sure what had happened, the old man and the slow-walker were dragged out of the back of the car, forcibly jogged past a security booth, and shoved into a room.
It was a sterile room, white-walled with linoleum floors. In one corner was a diagonal counter protected by bullet-proof glass, with a very stern woman cop behind it, who reminded the old man of the waitress at UpStreet. The two walls adjacent to the booth were covered with posters, most of which gave details of various laws. The remaining two walls were lined with benches, where a few people sat, all of them handcuffed and accompanied by cops. The passenger-cop pushed the old man and the slow-walker down on a bench near the door and stood over them, nodding at the cop in the booth, who was currently saying something to someone standing next to her.
“Next!” she called as soon as the conversation ended, which didn’t take long. The passenger-cop dragged his two prisoners over to the booth, said something to the woman which the old man couldn’t catch, and then shot them both hateful glances. The woman punched a button. A buzzer sounded beyond the door next to the counter, and the door clicked open. Just before the passenger-cop dragged both of them through the doorway, the old man caught a glimpse of the booth-cop’s clock. Unbelievably, it read 3:45. He also noted that same enigmatic “CTk” symbol printed on the clock’s face. Then, the passenger-cop dragged them both through the doorway and kicked the heavy, barred door shut behind him.
They jogged down the hallway, took a right, passed through a barred gate, and were shoved into an empty cell. The passenger-cop undid their handcuffs and shoved the door to behind him, disappearing with a slam of the gate beyond. His hammering footsteps echoed through the sterile hall, then fell silent. The old man sat down on the wooden plank that passed for the cell’s bench, and hung his head between his knees. He felt terrified and incredibly befuddled. The slow-walker sat down next to him.
“What did they get you for?” asked the man morosely, his voice dropping to a normal speed.
“I don’t know…” whispered the old man.
“My name’s Robert Garrison.”
“I’m Chester.” Robert extended a pasty hand, but Chester didn’t shake it, and they fell into silence again. After a while, Chester looked up at him. “Why did they arrest you?” he asked. The young man bowed his head again, then sat back against the concrete wall.
“The watch. What else?”
“How can they arrest you for having a watch?”
“It wasn’t a certified watch.”
“What do you mean, certified?” Robert looked up as though Chester had asked “What do you mean, the sky is blue.”
“It’s not certified…it’s not a CTK watch!” Chester felt a chill run down his back as he remembered the cryptic “CTk” he’d seen on those clocks’ faces.
“What is CTK?”
“Central Timekeeping, what else?” Robert looked positively flabbergasted that this old man could possibly know so little.
“They arrested you because your watch was made by the wrong company?”
“Because my watch wasn’t made by CTK. It’s against the law to have a non-CTK watch.”
“Why?” Chester looked very confused. Robert looked around, seemingly checking to see if anybody was listening, then leaned close and whispered in Chester’s ear.
“Because CTK wants to control time. CTK clocks are always updated with the correct time. Well, that’s what they say, at least. But they’re just a puppet for the government. Every year, the government makes the clocks run just a little bit faster. It started five years ago, when the government agreed to legally require all clocks to be CTK-made – CTK are rich as hell – and then, the government’s just been increasing the speed, until everybody has to do everything so fast that they don’t have time to think or make any trouble. There’s a curfew that starts at ten o’clock, and if you’re outside after that, you can get arrested. Even though it’s still light out at ten on the clock!” Chester still looked like he didn’t understand. “What? Did you know? Where the hell have you been?”
“I live in the hills. I haven’t been in the city for ten years.”
“Ten years? No wonder! That’s why you got arrested! ‘Cause you’re still living on Earth-time, not CTK-time. Earth-time goes by at the same rate as the body clock: one day every twenty-four hours. CTK-time, on the other hand, is a lot faster. A day goes by every forty-eight hours. Except, from the hours of ten at night to six in the morning, you can’t go outside without breaking curfew and getting arrested. That’s twenty hours by the CTK clocks, so people get real agitated. And then, they go off to work in the morning and they’ve got to hurry like hell because they’ve got no time to do anything, because before you know it it’s eleven o’clock, and you’ve got to be at your desk, and they only give you like one lunch break fifteen minutes long – that’s seven and a half real minutes – around twenty-four in the morning. And so everybody’s in a hurry all the time and everybody’s upset and agitated and having heart attacks all the time…” Robert had begun to talk faster and faster at the end, and by the time his rant was over, he was out of breath and panting. Chester stared back at him incredulously, in that strange, unsure way that people stare at other people when they believe the person they’re watching may very well be insane.
“But, why?” he asked simply. Robert looked at him as though he were a simpleton.
“To keep people stressed…and hurried. Nobody’s going to throw up arms against the government – and the damn cops, who’re just puppets too, and who fuck up and arrest innocent people all day long – if they’re all in a hurry and think they’re gonna be late! It’s the perfect system of control! They took three years to get from twenty-four hours a day to forty-eight, so nobody noticed. And the clock faces all don’t have numbers on ‘em, so it’s even harder to notice the change…” Robert trailed off and his eyes widened with horror as he saw a cop standing by the cell door. The cop was grinning evilly.
“I’mGladICaughtThatYou’reGoingAwayForLife!” exclaimed the cop, who opened the door, cuffed Robert again, and dragged him screaming down the hall. When all had gone quiet again, Chester suddenly became aware of a ticking sound. It had to be a clock. Except, it was ticking at the wrong pace. Chester placed a finger on his wrist and measured his heart-rate. According to the clock’s ticks, his heart was beating at thirty times a minute. If that were true, Chester realized with great horror, he would be dead. It dawned on him then that Robert Garrison hadn’t been insane. He’d been telling the truth.
