This page was last updated: October 30, 2007
THE CLOCK & THE RADIO STATION


“3:20 AM on the 9th of August… in the silence, you will die.”

“I beg your pardon?” Thomas felt the heat of ire in his face. Not only was he going to be late getting to the office thanks to a dead car battery, but there was an unpleasant odor - reminiscent of urine - permeating the air. And now he was getting annoyed by a stranger. ‘Public Transportation’ he thought to himself.

The woman blinked several times. “Are you addressing me?”

“Yeah, I’m ‘addressing’ you.” His voice had risen. He lowered the volume. “What did you mean?”

“I don’t understand…”

“Look, you were staring right at me when you said it. What sort of bullshit is this?”

Behind her, a gray-haired man rustled his morning edition of the Tribune in clenched hands. “Young man, that is no way to speak to a lady.”

Again, Thomas felt heat, this time from shame. “Please, excuse my language…”

The woman clasped her bag and rose. “Never mind. This is my stop. Good day.” The last was directed towards Newspaper Guy.

Thomas gritted his teeth. He’d given up his own spot for that woman. Did such a deed now warrant death threats? He took the vacated seat and, unfolding his own copy of the tribune, winced at the reminder that today was August the 8th.

*****

He tossed down his apartment keys. Kicking off his shoes, Thomas rubbed his belly reliving the foie gras and lobster bisque experience he’d enjoyed earlier, and the lovely young ladies at the club, later. He could still feel the bass-heavy rhythms thrumming through his body.

Things were going well. With a promotion on the horizon, and the cute receptionist giving him the eye, there was a lot to look forward to. Twenty-seven was too young to die, anyway. Yeah, the incident on the bus had been in the back of his mind, and now that he didn’t have the distractions of work and socializing, it was front-and-centre.

Making his way past the leather sofa and end table, he dug into the box marked “bedroom”, and pulled out a gleaming white clock/radio. He then walked to the wall and plugged it into the socket. He placed it on one of the bare shelves at eye level. Taking out his cell phone, he set the time on the clock – 2:45 AM - and turned on the radio. Sound. Music. Good. It wasn’t going to be quiet if he could help it.

Not that he was worried. He wasn’t the sort to let something out of a bad horror movie bend him out of shape. ‘Portents of doom… what kind of idiot takes these things seriously?’

He looked over the sparsely furnished living area. Not much now, but he had plans.

Heading over to the kitchen, he poured a glass of wine. He trailed one admiring finger along the granite countertop, then returned to plop down on the sofa.

He sat and sipped and felt restless. Too bad the TV wouldn’t arrive until next week. He opened his laptop and checked his email. Spam. Setting the now empty glass down, he stood and paced around the room. He mentally arranged future acquisitions; home theatre over there, a console over here, some art on the walls…

His foot caught on something. Arms extended to break his fall, they collided with the end table, knocking it over. Pain lanced through his hand. He climbed up and made his way into the kitchen. Over the sink, he removed the bits of broken glass from his palm under running water. Using a dishtowel to staunch the blood, he became aware of the silence. He looked at the clock; 3:19 AM. His eyes shot to the overturned end table and followed the path his feet had taken leading to it. They stopped on the white cord and the plug at the end - lying on the carpet.

He felt cold. Icy fingertips ran up his spine.

The towel dropped from his fingers. His legs took him to the cord. Time seemed to drop its pace; seconds felt like minutes. ‘Why am I moving so slowly? Hurry!’ He grabbed the plug and carried it to the wall. He was fixated on the motion of plug, now red-smeared, nearing the outlet ‘How many seconds left? Move, damn you!’

Connected. Sound. Music. Good.

Had he been holding his breath all this time? He drew in a great gasp of air. The clock! 3:21 AM. He checked his cell phone; 3:21 AM.

Collapsing on the carpet, the icy fingers withdrew. Now, he could feel the sticky discomfort of sweat. He stayed like that for several minutes, savoring the air in his lungs and the pounding of his heart.

Jovial male voices announced the traffic report and the weather forecast, warning listeners of “foreboding storm clouds”.

‘Foreboding’. Thomas’ body shook, belly tightening, and erupted in a series of snorts and guffaws. He stopped in mid chuckle…

‘Hold on… she didn’t say what year.'


petiteflower - 5/10/03