Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
James Joyce – Ulysses
OH HELL, I say, remembering too late how much I hate days that begin with a curse. I am awake…ripped awake at three thirty two in the a.m. by a blistering crack of thunder and a tumultuous rain attacking my roof and walls. I know it’s three thirty two because the moment the thunder strikes, I burst panting from my dreamsleep and look over to the clock radio, which clearly says three thirty two. Two hours or so later I am calmer, albeit still awake, and in a disconcertingly transcendental turn of events, my clock radio still says PRECISELY-THREE-THIRTY-TWO…
…which wouldn’t be quite so disturbing if it were one of those older mechanical models with the painted numbers that flip over. With those, a power outage simply leaves the digits stranded at whatever instant in time it occurs. Thing is though, I’ve got an electronic digital clock radio, the kind with red lighted numerals. If there’s power, they remain on, inexorably increasing to mark the passage of the minutes and hours. When the power goes out, the numerals go out. End of story, QED, no problemo.
Except that isn’t quite the end of it, because I’ve been laying here now for nearly two hours, staring at the brightly blazing red numerals three thirty two.
But wait, the clever person says. How do you know it’s been two hours, when the clock hasn’t changed? Well, I don’t know it, at least not exactly. I just know that it’s been a very long time, and a lot of rain has fallen on my roof in that time. But here’s another odd little detail (now would be a good time to begin keeping track of the odd little details) – there hasn’t been a sound, other than the incessant downpour, since that first clap of thunder that awoke me. The rain has continued undaunted, but no thunder, no lightning, no wind, no other sounds at all. Just white noise on black shingles.
So why in God’s name would someone lie awake in bed and look at a clock radio for two hours? Well, it’s not so much that I’ve stared at it non-stop. I’ve spent much of the time gazing up at the ceiling, or contemplating the subtle shadows in my darkened bedroom. But then, every few minutes, I’ll turn back to the clock, just to check – and sure enough – three thirty two. I am, you must understand, the sort of fellow who, when abruptly awakened, tends to come to with a violently racing heartbeat, accompanied by all manner of other accelerated physiological phenomena, the net effect of which is that I have no hope at all of falling back to sleep.
So after what feels like another twenty minutes or so, I decide to make the best of the bad, and get up. Start the day off with a bang, you know – lemons to lemonade, early bird, and all that dross. Switching on the nightstand light, I spin into my robe, causing flowing bat-like shadows to dance about the room. Perhaps my sense of timing is off a bit from the lack of sleep, but it seems as though daylight ought to be reasonably close at hand. It is, after all, summertime, and aren’t we supposed to be saving daylight, whatever that means? Well, if so, making an early start of it would seem to be one way of saving. But a quick peek out my bedroom window reveals no sign of anything but black sky and relentless rain.
Two feet into two slippers, and it’s out to the kitchen, where I flip on another light. Grasping the teapot from the back burner, I draw it to the sink for a fill, then glance at the (also electronic digital) clock above the stove. Its small green seven-segment numerals proudly proclaim three thirty two, and, since I am not a morning person, it takes a moment or two of subconscious processing (while water runs into the teapot) to decide whether or not this should be comforting or disconcerting. Setting the pot on the burner and igniting the flame, I gradually conclude that disconcerted is how I ought to feel, and so I do.
Another glance, this time out the kitchen window. Nothing – darkness, falling water, same old. There’s one way though to put paid to this slowly swelling conundrum – the antique mechanical clock in my study. I have kept it wound and in good repair my entire life, perhaps in anticipation of this very moment. It is such an ingrained element of my existence that I long ago stopped hearing its slightly off-center tick tock. Only now, as I make my way from the kitchen toward the study, it strikes me that I’m suddenly not hearing what I’m so used to not hearing.
The study has one eastward-facing window. If there’s to be any harbinger of an approaching sunrise, it will arrive from this direction. Thus it is with a double helping of trepidation that I draw open the glass door and step inside. On the window I see only the coursing rivulets of rain as they traverse their labyrinthine paths down the glass. But the droplets make their way in total darkness, no sign of a hopeful light in the east. Something else too that there is none of, and that’s sound from my old dependable Ingraham mantel clock. The remarkable absence of ticking gives me pause before reaching for the light – do I really want to see what it says? But hey, this is getting a bit silly now, isn’t it? Enough is enough. I reach for the light switch and boldly (no…more like resolutely) flick it on, squinting to focus my eyes on the hands of the clock. The short one, with its delicately fluted brass tip, is neatly centered between the three and the four. The long one sits just a few degrees past the six, the analog equivalent of…three thirty two. That business with the two digital clocks I had begun to rationalize as some sort of inexplicable power-related phenomenon. This…whatever this is with the antique clock makes me rub the bridge of my nose really hard and then stare at the floor for a few seconds. I turn out the study light and return to the kitchen.
Back at the stove, it occurs to me that I should have given the movement on the mantel clock a jiggle or two, just to see if it would start running again. I’ll think over tea about whether I really want to do that or not. A quick anticipatory touch to the side of the teapot – still tepid. For no reason I can put a name to, I step to the telephone and pick up the receiver. Normal everyday dial tone – no big deal. Maybe there’s something on the radio about how long this rain’s supposed to last. I push the power button, but hear nothing but detuned white noise, which, with your eyes closed, and your ears doing whatever the auditory equivalent of squinting is, sounds remarkably like the rain on the roof. Anyway, that’s an odd thing (is that three now, or four?), since I distinctly remember having it tuned to the news before I went to bed last night, and I’m pretty sure they’re a twenty-four hour station. Well, this is shaping up to be a somewhat off-kilter morning anyway. I probably just bumped the thing when I was bringing the teapot over to the sink.
Turning the station knob from one end to the other though yields nothing but more white noise. It neither rises nor falls in volume, just a continuous hiss. I suppose a lightning storm can knock down a radio station – but all of them? More likely, the jolt that woke me up somehow fried the radio itself. Let’s hope the television fared better. Another light touch of the teapot – no warmer than the last touch. A quick glance underneath and the flame’s working fine. Perhaps I’m just impatient. Watched pot and all that. Let’s see what’s on TV.
Nothing at all is what’s on TV. Audio is the same white noise I’m getting from the radio. Video is snow – every channel, local or cable. That must have been some storm last night. Only there’s no power outage, at least not at the moment. The lights are working fine. But no TV, no radio, and the clocks are on – just a little…stuck? Quick peek out the kitchen window, over across the lawn to the Benson’s place. Big surprise – it’s dark. Curious thing for three thirty two in the morning. Streetlight’s working fine though. I can see the heavy raindrops pummeling the street beneath its conical yellow beam. It’s going to be one hell of a commute to work in this downpour.
What in the hell is up with this damned teapot? It’s no hotter than it was five (ten?) minutes ago. Is that even possible? I pour a splash into my cup, insert a tentative fingertip, and it’s exactly like it was when it came out of the tap (I will pretend that this is nothing more than annoying for the moment). So much for the old fashioned way of doing things. Fill up the cup and set it in the microwave. Push the button and wait for the magic. Pouring out the rest of the water into the sink, I return the teapot to the still-lit burner. Reaching for the gas knob to shut it off, a delayed and highly disturbing observation hits me. When my hand is setting the teapot back on the lit burner, I feel nothing at all from the flame – not even that residual warmth you usually get from having your hand a couple of feet above the fire. Moving the teapot to the back of the stove, I begin to test this strangeness. The burner’s on full blast. My hand is a good safe two feet above – nothing. Lower it by degrees (my hand, not the flame). Within a foot now – nothing. Room temperature. Down to eight inches, six inches for a few seconds. Turning what should be a well-done palm toward my face, I can plainly see – absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. As I turn off the burner, I glance accidentally from my perfectly normal unburned hand to the stove’s digital clock again – you guessed it – three thirty two. Just for giggles, I push the CLOCK SET button and choose another time. Four eighteen. Arbitrary, but different.
Okay, I can’t dismiss this burner thing. A quick glance around the kitchen yields the remnants of yesterday’s paper. Tearing off a small corner from the sports section, I lay it on the burner and, hesitating briefly, turn the knob back on. I stare dumbfounded as the blue flame curls up from the gas jets, diverting around the edges of the newsprint, second after second after second…but without effect of any kind. After a minute or so of this madness, I reach into the flame and grasp the edge of the paper, withdrawing it slowly. I turn off the burner, stare closely at the unchanged piece of paper. I don’t know what it means, but I must now conclude that something extremely fucked up (succinct if imprecise) is taking place inside my house. The thing with the paper and the burner proves that it’s not just me; it’s the house…at least.
Or could it be bigger? More widespread? I now find myself pondering other previously unconsidered aspects of the house, placing the normal on one side of my madness scale, and the abnormal on the other side. Example – the food in the fridge is still cold. If I put something warm inside, will it get cold? In goes my cup of room temperature water – we’ll find out later. Do hot and cold water both flow normally from my tap?…Yes, they do. How can that be? Wait though…this can be, because they were already hot and cold before the storm came. If this is really about things not changing after the lightning bolt (an emerging hypothesis at best), then the faucet water can still be explainable.
So is it just the house, or is it everything? Everywhere? Quick experiment – step out into the rain. What happens? I open the kitchen door leading to the backyard. The rain is driving down, straight down, no discernible wind at all, no sound but the falling torrents. By now a bit beyond the state of rational reason, I step, bathrobe and all, out into the downpour, where I stand for several uncertain and silly-feeling seconds. And here’s the funny thing, the thing I was almost afraid would happen. Even though the rain is falling directly on me – on my head, my shoulders, my outstretched arms – I do not sense it striking me. In no way do I feel the least bit wet. I stand out here like an idiot in the rain for a good minute before stepping back into the kitchen, where I require not so much as a tissue to wipe my eyes. Nothing. It’s as though I never left the house.
Reflecting for a moment on the apparent capriciousness of concepts like normalcy, I reach for the phone and hit nine one one, having not the slightest idea what I will say if someone answers. Doesn’t matter what numbers I dial though – nothing but continuous dial tone. The telephone network is still out there, just not for me. Not right now. Out of curiosity I turn again to the stove clock that I reset earlier. I’m not quite sure whether to expect three thirty two or four eighteen. If the theory I’m developing holds water, it should say four eighteen…good guess, four eighteen it is.
My theory – my fear – is that I’ve become stuck, a skipping record if you like – in some sort of place (time?) where events have ceased to march forward in their usual inescapable way. If this assertion is accurate, then there’s technically nothing wrong with any of my clocks. They are simply measuring something which, at the moment, isn’t changing. And if time is not changing, then it follows (inasmuch as anything “follows” right now) that changes of physical state – cold to hot, dry to wet – can’t happen either. The fact that the rain test outside my kitchen door worked out the way it did raises the next unavoidable question. Is whatever’s happening happening only to me, to this house and its contents, or across some broader area? Seems to be beyond the confines of the house proper though, or else wouldn’t I have gotten wet outside? Unless…unless this is just about me, no matter where I go…How to test for that one?
Set a bowl out in the rain. Will it fill up or not? At least I know I won’t get wet doing it! I reach into my china hutch for a nice big crystal bowl. Not sure why it needs to be so fancy, but what the hell. Something like this doesn’t happen every day. I set it out on the steps that lead up to my back porch. Directly under the rain. Standing and watching for a couple of minutes, I am struck less by the bowl as it doesn’t fill up with water (God help me, I actually expected that), but more by the complete lack of sound as the drops hit (do they?) what should be quite resonant crystal. I lean closer. Nothing. It’s as though the bowl simply isn’t there. But it is there, because I reach down, pick it up, and stroll (far too) insouciantly back inside to add up the facts (there’s a bold word) and think about what’s next.
I feel remarkably calm, considering what is happening around me. To me. Perhaps I’ve convinced myself that it’s all a dream. Only it isn’t. I’m up, awake, alert (despite the lack of tea). This is real. This is happening. Except that…it isn’t…actually. Because for something to “happen,” doesn’t time have to pass? It’s easily been over an hour since I climbed out of bed – four or five hours since the lightning woke me. Got to be eight, nine in the morning. Yet it’s still dark as midnight outside. Rain continues to fall without relent.
Shit. What about that cup of water I put in the microwave? But I know the answer to that one already, don’t I? Hardly worth opening the door. And the one in the refrigerator? Just for laughs, open the door – feels identical to the one sitting in the microwave. OK, what would a physicist call this…this event (occurrence?). To my inexpert and understandably confused way of thinking, it’s rather like time travel, only inverted. Time is marching on (someplace), yet here I sit, stuck like a car in the mud. Wouldn’t it be funny (hysterical) if I died in my sleep last night and it turns out that some sadistic demon has concocted this as my personal hell. Eternity in an inescapable midnight downpour…with no tea.
Car in the mud…What about the car? It can’t possibly work, right? Lots of physical things have to happen to make a car work. Electrical things. Fuel flow. Combustion. Things have to heat up. Spin around. If none of those things work here in the house, why would they out in the driveway? I’ll bet the battery works though – the digital clock too. And I’ll bet I know what time it says. Can I make myself sit here without at least trying it? Not a chance.
Slow walk down the driveway to where my ninety-seven Olds sits, driver’s side illuminated by the streetlight. I am, of course, dry as William F. Buckley. Bright side to everything, right? The car is soaking wet. It’s been wet all night though – no problem. I cannot help critically evaluating all of my observations now, employing my newfound set of (still developing) physical laws. The key works. The door opens. Before I climb inside, I gaze around the neighborhood. I can see five streetlights, all in perfect working order. There are four houses in clear view. No lights though. Why would there be? It’s three thirty two (or four eighteen) in the morning. Somehow putting a number on time is feeling less and less meaningful.
Although I’ve been standing beside the open car door for a minute or more, gazing around, I carry no wetness inside when I sit down in the driver’s seat. Furthermore, even though I’ve held the door open the whole time, no part of the door or seat has gotten wet. Key in hand. Do I want to do this? Oh sure, you’ve come this far. Key in the ignition. A pause and a tentative clockwise turn, first to only the electronics notch, the first detent. Headlights work. Radio works – well, at least as well as the one in the kitchen (white noise across the spectrum). The clock on the dash works – my new favorite three digits.
OK, for the grand prize and a chance to come back next week, turn the key all the way…nothing. No engine roar. No starter whir. Not even a relay click. Nothing…I sit, listening to the radio hiss, looking at my garage door and the falling rain in the light of the headlights. What have we learned? Electronic things work…sort of. Basic laws of physics? Forget it, Charlie. Which realization raises an interesting question in my mind. It appears that I can set physical changes in motion (I can open the car door), but no changes in state can occur. That’s one I’ll have to noodle over (should have paid more attention in high school physics class). Yet gravity seems in fine order – nothing’s floating around the yard. But of course gravity was here and doing just great before the storm. What will happen if I set something moving, oscillating. Normal friction should make it stop, right? That’s why we don’t (didn’t?) have perpetual motion machines. Climbing out of the car, I reach for the radio antenna on the front fender. I pull the top back a few inches and let it whip forward…and back…and forward…and back. And so on it goes ad infinitum (ad nauseum). Let’s come back to that. I walk over to the swing that hangs from a maple next to the garage. A quick kick with my (maddeningly dry) foot sets it to swinging. The emerging rules of this new (anti) world say it will swing until hell freezes over…or until I reach out and stop it myself. I am tempted to throw a rock up into the air…perhaps leap upward myself…nope, not quite ready to deal with that one yet.
Glance back over my shoulder. The radio antenna vibrates undiminished. Glance forward again. The swing (which is wet, as it should be) swings unchanged. Stepping back to the car, I reach out my hand to stop the antenna, accidentally rapping a knuckle. I think that should have hurt, but…never mind. All right, back inside. We’ve got a bit of thinking (panicking?) to do.
This is strange, deep, scary. I don’t know what to think, but here are some off-the-cuff questions. Can I leave? What would I find if I simply started walking down my street? What if I knocked on a neighbor’s door? Assuming that there’s a “later this morning” for others, what would they see if they drove past my house? Is it possible for me to hurt or kill myself? Jesus, I hope so. I may need that option before long.
C’mon, do something optimistic…the mantel clock. Go try to fire up the Ingraham. Back to the study…nope, no change…little hand…big hand…I give the pendulum a push to one side. It’s just a smaller version of the (still swinging) swing outside, right? The pendulum swings fine (so why did it ever stop?). We know how this is going to go though, don’t we, kiddies. Pendulum can swing ‘til the cows come home, but no tick, no tock, them hands ain’t going no place. Just turn around and walk away. Do not look out the window. No light in the east for this son of god help me…I learn fast mama…
Maybe I should just go back in the bedroom and get dressed. Might help me to think better. Grab a quick showe…then again, maybe not. Damn it…DAMN IT ALL…momentary loss of control… make a fist…lash out. Punch the nearest wall. Now there’s an encouraging test result. The hand hits hard…too hard…bounces off…no damage to the wall (state change verboten), no damage to hand…no pain. All right, I have GOT to know. Back to the kitchen. Open the utensil drawer. Extract the butcher knife…the big one. Palm open…knife tip poised, trembling…nothing major, we’re still in control here…drag the tip. Make a small cut…Try again, you’re not pushing HARD ENOUGH! Draws the tip the full length…right down the life line, that long long life line…nothing…nothing. Skin like steel…man of steel. Great! Super-FUCKING-man trapped in his own house, at midnight, in a raging downpour, for the rest of eternity. Anyone wanna take bets on immortality? You just know this nightmare goes on forever…
Now see, if this was a real story (you know, the kind that has a beginning, and a middle, and an end), about now’s when my alarm would go off, and I’d wake up, and it would turn out this was all just a bad dream, and I’d get up, get dressed, and go to work. Except there’s just one problem with that outcome, pleasant as it might sound…
My alarm is not going to go off at THREE…THIRTY…TWO…in the (God help me) morning. So what can I do? What in the HOLY HELL can I DO? Calm down…take a breath. Count to ten. I can read…catch up on all those books I never seem to get to. I still don’t know why the electricity works, but thank almighty God (and Thomas Edison) that it does. Do I dare to ever turn off a light again?
More freaky thoughts occur to me (yes, more). What are the chances I’ll ever be able to go to sleep again…ever? Will I run out of food? But wait, twenty bucks says I don’t need food. No time passes, no energy spent, no digestion needed. Does food even have taste? I’ll check into that later. The wrong answer would be the final straw right now.
Feels like I’m left with two possible courses of (action?). Sit here in my house and wait around for more things to not happen to me. Or go outside and take a walk around the neighborhood at what will forever be three thirty two in the morning in the middle of a driving rainstorm. Is there a Plan C that I’m missing here? Oh, and lest we forget, those will still be my two options – my only two options – one…hundred…thousand…million…god almighty frozen here in hell years from now. And wouldn’t it just be the ultimate joke if part of hell was not even knowing that you’d died?
He lets his weight fall heavily into a kitchen chair. He becomes calm…smiles knowingly…acceptingly to himself. He supposes he will talk to himself a good deal in the coming days (day?). May as well go back inside and get dressed. Got a lot of reading to get started on. A lot of watching the dark rain as it runs down the study window. A lot of the mantel clock not ticking to listen to. A lot of madness to get started on…an eternity. Dear God, he wishes he had a dog.