And so that Saturday morning, he woke up with a feeling of anticipation and left his home longing for his favorite breakfast place.
The line of people in front of the food cart was as long as ever. When his turn came, the Thai lady smiled a very broad smile. “Long time no see you,” she greeted him, her eyes shining. He placed his order. The lady handed him one khanom buang filled with extra cream.
“Yeah.” Alfred took his breakfast and paid. “Been busy.”
“Young man makes money,” the Thai lady said approvingly while brushing her index finger with her thumb. “He buy big house. Get nice car. Then he get beautiful lady and lots of babies. Yes?”
“Maybe,” Alfred said, smiling awkwardly.
“Good, good.” The lady nodded. “Tomorrow, yes? See you tomorrow?”
“I think so.” Alfred gave her a very generous tip and waved her goodbye.
He headed with a strange sort of anticipation toward the park. Once there, he felt his heart beating faster and faster. Alfred ran his fingers through his hair and looked around.
What was he going to do now?
He moved forward, barely conscious that his legs were bringing him closer and closer to the last place in the world he wanted to be. Only a few minutes, now, before he would see the bench surrounded by lemon trees. And maybe a man with a dark coat, smiling at him.
When Alfred got close, he hid behind a bush fewer than twenty yards away from the bench and studied the surroundings.
The bench was empty. Alfred kept looking around, but Pacific wasn’t there.
Alfred gave a last look before emerging from the bush. He slumped on the bench and closed his eyes for a while.
“No freaking way,” he mumbled to himself. He shook his head and exhaled slowly.
It wasn’t easy to admit it, but after all he had done to avoid Pacific, there he was, alone and eager, holding his breath like a schoolboy who dreaded an exam but knew he must pass it in order to get on with his life.
What was happening to him?
He didn’t know. So he just waited, and waited, until his phone’s display showed him he could wait no longer.
Alfred rose from the bench and headed toward the massive building that was his workplace, knowing that he had missed out on something really important. Something he could never hope for again.
5
In the Name of Fear
That Sunday, Alfred woke up staring blankly at the ceiling of his apartment. The alarm went off at seven thirty like it normally did. The big project his company was working on was almost complete, and every single hour counted. Every single hour, even if it was Sunday. Mr. Solidali needed him now more than ever. His promotion was at stake. He had to work harder than anyone else to get it.
And he wanted to.
Did he, though?
Of course he wanted to.
But why?
To get his own office. More money. More benefits. All of these things, he supposed.
He stared at the ceiling, asking himself questions and answering them as best he could.
And then, suddenly, Pacific’s words stood up like a giant wall of fire, impossible to ignore. Those words had been on the back of Alfred’s mind since they had been spoken.
“You can lose yourself in nothingness more easily than you can imagine,” he repeated loudly, as if he were casting a spell. “It happens fast. When your whole life starts to look like the same old movie, the daily routine and habits make everything look stale. The repetition, the copy-and-paste of one day onto the next, are like repeated cases of déjà vu carrying you closer and closer to the grave.”
Alfred finally understood why the nameless feeling had bubbled up in the first place, but it was too late now to do anything about it.
For the rest of his days, he would wake up one morning after the other and carry on with a life that had nothing to offer but predictability.
Wasn’t that what he had always wanted, after all? Safety? Predictability? A stable job and a stable income?
Alfred found himself devoid of answers. He didn’t know what he wanted. Not anymore.
He rose from his bed slowly, like a man heading toward a wall with a firing squad in front of it.
He got ready for work without really caring what he was doing. He didn’t shave, and forgot entirely to take a shower. He put his usual clothes on and went out without bringing an umbrella, even though the sky was heavy with clouds.
Alfred’s mind was numb while he walked down Main Street. He moved as if propelled by inertia. He heard the newspaper lady yelling something indistinct while waving a bunch of newspapers to the passersby. No one stopped. No one cared. The lady kept yelling and waving, yelling and waving like a marionette moved by invisible strings.
Alfred kept walking and realized his legs had brought him to Keeper Street. He waited his turn in line then asked for his usual breakfast. He heard himself say a few words, but was not sure what they were. He was just reacting to the world around him now. Nothing more, nothing less.
The Thai lady said something back to him. She looked concerned while handing him a khanom buang. Alfred was not listening. He just paid, grabbed the food in silence, and walked away.
Alfred headed toward the park without eating his breakfast, still deep in a peculiar trance. He felt lost. He felt isolated from everything and everybody.
He looked around. People moved relentlessly in every direction. He couldn’t distinguish the men from the women, the tall from the short, the black from the white. All of them looked exactly the same to him. Alfred stopped in the midst of the river of people, and, for the first time since he had arrived to the city, he really looked at them.
Drones. Nothing more than drones powered by haste and the fear of missing out. But missing out on what, exactly? He didn’t know, but the fear was a powerful fuel that kept them moving, faster and faster, day in and day out.
Alfred was powered by the very same fear; he knew that. Everybody was a slave of that condition. That was the way life was supposed to be. Anything else was off: a heresy, a joke.
He used to like jokes.
He smiled, and before he knew it, he started laughing. At first it was nothing more than a giggle, but it soon became an all-out howl.
There was no happiness in that laugh, though. It was the unexpected way his body dealt with that dreadful feeling. There was stress and confusion and emptiness, all combined to form a void like he had never experienced before.
Was he going crazy?
Someone shoved past him. Alfred lost his balance and fell.
He stayed down, his hands scratched and bloody where they had hit the asphalt. No one even glanced at him. No one could see him. They were too busy perusing the Internet with their phones, buying things they didn’t need with money they didn’t have. Busy moving forward. Always forward.
Alfred stood up and resumed walking.
After what felt like a thousand years, he finally got in front of the park’s gate and then in front of the dreaded bench. Again, it was empty.
He stared at the bench for a very long time, completely numb, and then glanced at his phone. It was eight forty. He had to rush now if he didn’t want to be late to work.
“Of course you need to go,” he muttered under his breath, still looking at the bench. “You don’t want to be late. Off you go, then, Alfred White. Have a painfully average day.”
But he didn’t go. Not this time. This time he sat on the bench and let time wash over him.
Eight forty-five.
A few minutes more, he said to himself. He needed to calm down. Just a few more minutes.
Eight forty-nine.
It would be fine. Everything would be fine.
Alfred tried to move and discovered that he couldn’t. He remained seated on the bench, staring at his phone’s screen. Eight forty-nine became eight fifty, and eight fifty became nine o’clock.
He was now officially late.
He had never been late.
&nbs
p; His phone rang. It was Mr. Solidali.
He didn’t answer.
The cell phone rang three more times.
He ignored it.
Alfred glanced at the passersby. It was strange to stay so still while everybody else was moving, to go against the current by doing absolutely nothing.
He looked at his phone, which was now completely blank. He could see his reflection staring back at him. Alfred thought about his life up to that point, Pacific’s words always in the back of his mind.
He imagined an older version of himself. It was like looking in a mirror to the future. The older Alfred White wore the same suit, had the same job, and was holding a half-finished khanom buang in his hand. That Alfred had followed the plan, had lived the life he was supposed to live, and would work hard until time and routine consumed him.
That realization scared him like nothing before. It was not the kind of fear that takes you away for a few moments and accelerates your heartbeat. No. This fear was fundamentally different. It was an understanding that went deep inside him. How could he not have seen it before? He was dying. Yes, dying slowly while walking and shaving and eating and being too afraid to be late for work.
His phone rang again and again and again. He turned it off and threw it away as far as he could.
He blinked at his own boldness. That wasn’t something he’d planned on doing. It just came as naturally as anything else he had ever done before.
He sat on the bench for the next hour, and for the hour after that. He felt exhausted. He lay down and closed his eyes.
It was well past noon when he woke up. He turned and saw somebody sitting next to him.
Alfred straightened himself up, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the man he never wanted to meet again yet had been desperate to find.
“Why are you here, Alfred White?” Pacific asked.
“I …” Alfred paused. He swallowed, looked down, and finally said, “I’m not sure.”
“That’s a true answer,” Pacific said. “I’ll tell you why. You’re here because you understood something today, something that scares you more than you can imagine. You are here because you have realized that you live in a prison and would do anything to escape from it.”
“Yes,” Alfred agreed. He wanted to add something more but didn’t know exactly what, so he simply said, “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Yes. Never.” Pacific glanced at his broken wristwatch, the one that was never working, a small smile playing on his lips. “What a word! Never. We use it far too often and far too lightly. It should be handled with more care, as all such words project into the future. We should never forget that.”
“So …” Alfred trailed off, then looked at Pacific with deliberate attention. “Why are you here?”
Pacific leaned back on the bench and cast a sideways look at Alfred. “Because I see a world of unexplored possibilities sitting beside me. I know who you are, Alfred White. I know where your fear comes from, and I know why you decided long ago that the certainty of a stable life was preferable to the uncertainty of an unplanned tomorrow.”
Alfred looked up at Pacific and squared his shoulders. “What makes you think you know me so well?” he asked.
“I know your past,” Pacific said. “Most people are what life makes them. You are no exception. Your parents were musicians, weren’t they?”
Alfred blinked, taken aback by the sudden question. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, they were.”
Pacific smiled knowingly. “They traveled often, and never stayed in the same place for more than a couple of years.” He paused, and seemed to bathe in the confusion on Alfred’s face. “They went where their music brought them and dreamed of performing on big stages with big audiences cheering them and craving their art. It never happened. They remained confined to bars and hotels, selling their music for the bare minimum to survive.”
Alfred looked away. He felt uncomfortable now, like a person stripped naked and put on stage in front of a mocking audience.
“I know you slept on a couch for most of your life because your parents couldn’t afford anything more than a studio apartment.” Pacific paused, letting the words sink in. “I know you were unable to make friends because of your parents’ lifestyle. I know they wanted you to be an artist, just like them. Yes, they wanted it real bad, didn’t they? I also know your rage when you left them and swore you would never make their mistake, that you would never trade your life for the promise of a dream. You see, your past is a powerful indicator of what you have become, Alfred White. But it doesn’t have to dictate the way you will be.”
Alfred had to force himself to look up at the man who had proven to know him better than anyone else. “How do you know all this about me?” he asked, his voice unsteady.
Pacific waved a hand casually. “You don’t really think I talk with random strangers, do you?”
“No,” Alfred said after a while. “Of course not.” He ran a hand over his hair. “Everything you said is true. About me, about my parents. Yes, I left them because I didn’t want to end up like them. I wanted to know what would happen to me the day after tomorrow. I wanted stability.”
“I understand you,” Pacific said. “Art is like the icing on a cake. It’s enjoyable to eat, but it doesn’t feed your stomach. Your body can’t run on just sugar. You pledged your allegiance to stability because it was the one thing your parents failed to provide. And you found it in the end, didn’t you?”
Alfred rubbed his hands uncomfortably. “I suppose I did,” he admitted.
“That is the past,” Pacific said dismissively. “You’re taking a step in a different direction now by sitting on this very bench, talking with me. I believe you are a young man with untapped potential. That is why I’m here with a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?” Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of proposition?”
“Ah.” Pacific’s face brightened. “I guess we could call it a period of guidance, of providing you with much sought-after answers to your questions. I will be your Virgil of course, showing you the path to the knowledge you seek.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A mentorship,” Pacific explained, standing up with a fluid motion. “That is what I’m offering you, Alfred White.”
He was much taller than Alfred had expected, probably six and a half feet. Pacific walked confidently toward the nearby lemon trees and snatched one of the bitter fruits from a branch. Then he threw it to Alfred without any warning. “Catch,” he said.
Alfred automatically stretched out his hands, ready to catch the lemon. But he never did. The lemon stopped in midair as though held by invisible strings. Alfred stared at the lemon, eyes wide open.
“How would you like to freeze something in the reality of its moment for as long as you please?” Pacific asked him, gesturing elaborately with his hands toward the lemon. “How would you like to live a perfect moment in your life over and over again, until the fullness of it makes you laugh and cry with joy you can barely describe? How would you like to correct a mistake before it becomes a scar deep inside your story?” Pacific paused, and the air itself seemed heavy with electricity. “Tell me, Alfred White. How would you like to witness the power of a god?”
Alfred kept staring at the impossible thing happening before him. A part of him was surprised he was not disturbed by the sight. After the déjà vu, he supposed a lemon hanging in the air was almost okay. Almost.
“How did you do it?” Alfred asked.
“Ah, there you have it.” Pacific whirled on the spot. “Curiosity is bubbling inside this young mind. Should I take this question of yours as an encouraging nod to my mentorship proposition?”
Alfred found himself smiling.
“Very well,” Pacific said. “An answer for a question, then. How did I do it, you ask me. I used time as a currency, that is how.”
“A currency?”
“When you fancy something, say, a pair of shoes”—Pacific pointed
to Alfred’s shoes—“you must be willing to pay for it. Time is no different. If you want time, you must be ready to pay with time to get it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Precisely,” Pacific agreed earnestly. “That is why a mentorship is needed. To make sense of what seems senseless. You follow me?”
“Not really.”
“Very good.” Pacific made a casual move with his fingers, and the lemon was back in his hand.
“Unbelievable,” Alfred mumbled.
“It was, before the lemon stopped and came back to my hand,” Pacific pointed out. “Now it is just a part of your knowledge. Catch.”
Alfred was too late to catch the lemon.
“So.” Pacific sat back on the bench. “Do you want to explore the subject further?”
Alfred picked up the lemon from the ground. He weighed it in his hand for a few seconds. “Yes, I would like it very much.”
“Let’s make a deal, then,” Pacific said brightly. “You will be my protégé tomorrow. You will shadow me and get to know what I do and why.” He raised a hand before Alfred could speak. “But listen carefully. In exchange for my patronage, you will follow my instructions, even though they might seem odd, and will not interfere with my decisions. What do you say?”
Alfred looked around uncomfortably. “To be honest, it feels a bit loose and broad. I mean, how do you expect me to make a decision based on … not knowing anything?”
“A leap of faith is always risky.” Pacific shrugged nonchalantly. “The fear of the unknown is what weeds out those unworthy of continuing the journey. However, I understand not everyone is ready for it. If that’s the case, I bid you farewell.” Pacific started rising.
“Wait!” Alfred grabbed Pacific’s coat. The last thing he wanted was to lose, again, his chance to get answers. “I’m in!” he blurted. “I’ll do it!”
Pacific looked at Alfred for a long while. “Very well,” he said, sitting back beside Alfred. He took the glove off his right hand. “Let’s shake on it, then.”
Alfred studied the man’s long fingers. They were slender, and more white than pink.
Lord of Time Page 5