TIME MATTERS – CHAPTER 4: Working Late

An image of the city late at night with some strange atmospheric phenomenom

I stayed late at the office that evening. My encounter with Professor Murdock earlier in the day had stirred in me a desire to do some research on the nature of time.  I took his visit as a sign to look for new insights relevant to the Chronologix pitch.

It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that I was able to start researching the topic. By the way, did you know that nobody really knows what time is? I mean, we measure it, but we don’t know what we are measuring. One of the definitions I found that night stated that time is what keeps everything from happening at once. Really? Is it a cosmic funnel in the space-time continuum? Is it a god-like guard that keeps everything in line? “Hold it right there, not your turn yet…”

Another source said that time is a measure in which events can be ordered from past to present to future. A measure? The question is what is the nature of that which is being measured.  And it was on that line of thought that I found my favorite worthless definition: “time is what clocks measure”. Mic drop…

After that I should have turned off my computer and gone home, but Joann, one of our senior copywriters, walked in to tell me that some of the guys were going to Brody’s – our favorite watering hole – for tapas and beers. Any other day I would have grabbed my coat and headed straight to pub land. No questions asked. But that day, for reasons that defy logic at so many levels, instead of saying “let’s go”, I decided to vent my frustration regarding the research results. Joann listened patiently (some would say ‘saintly’) and said:

“Listen Ray, don’t complicate things. For this presentation we really don’t have to go that deep. There’s no need to spend time in philosophical debates about what time is or isn’t. Let’s just work on the idea we discussed this morning. What you said about the Chronologix watch being a time machine because it allows the wearer to travel through time in a more efficient way IS the way to go. I truly believe we have a winner there. Come on, it’s been a long day. There are a couple of beers screaming your name at Brody’s. Don’t let them down.”

I should have followed her advice, but instead I told her that I wanted to work on this a little longer.

I never made it to Brody’s, and from what I heard afterwards, I missed one hell of a good time. Bob was joined there by his wife Iris, a wonderful woman with a fabulous sense of humor. A very talented former model who would have gone far in the business if she hadn’t decided to be a full-time mom to their two kids. A hard decision she hasn’t regretted for a second.

That night was our new receptionist Tanya’s first time at Brody’s, and after being introduced to Iris, she asked her and Bob how they met. Actually, I’ve heard that story before and it’s pretty funny.

It starts with Bob in his most expensive designer suit feeling and behaving like a Hollywood star. He was having dinner with some clients on the second floor of this five star restaurant built inside an old mansion. At some point he needed to go the restrooms, which were on the first floor. As he approached the main stairwell to go down, he saw these two extremely attractive women on the landing coming up. He started to go down the stairs smiling at them and on the second step he slipped and ended up on Iris’ feet.

Bob always says that, to his credit, he made a perfect landing. No broken bones or sprained muscles, but his pride, on the other hand, needed an emergency room stat. Something that’s a little hard to imagine since that guy’s self-esteem can fill up the Gulf of Mexico. Anyway, that’s the story, and listening to Iris’ side of it is usually very funny. To this day she’s still impressed by how Bob handled such a potentially humiliating situation. She usually ends the tale with: “And this beautiful, impeccably dressed man, still lying on the floor, extended his hand towards me and said: And that ladies, is how you make an entrance, Bob Olsen.” Yep, that’s Bob alright.

I left the office around ten that night and went straight home. At the time I lived on the 21st floor of an exclusive apartment building not too far from the office. The security guard on duty in the lobby was a burly Scottish fellow named Alastair.

“Guid eening Mr. Young. You look loused tonicht,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m beat. What can I say, it’s been a long day. And call me Ray.”

“Can’nae dae that, Mr. Young. Company regulations, ye know.”

I usually enjoyed talking to him about rugby, a sport I knew very little of, but one I was determined to understand and maybe play a friendly seven on weekends; but that night I was too tired to chat so I simply wished him a good night and headed for the elevators. Nevertheless, Alastair’s remark about my tired appearance made me realize that I had been working very long hours for an extended period of time. To be honest, during the previous month I had been working over 60 hours a week and sleep was becoming restless. I wondered if I was turning into a workaholic? As the elevator doors opened on my floor I decided not to worry about it.

When I got to my apartment I thought I saw a bluish glow coming through the gap between the floor and the bottom of the doorway, but when I opened the door the place was dark as usual. I turned the foyer light and went straight to the kitchen. I was famished.

From the kitchen I could see the balcony, and that’s when I noticed him. He was smoking a pipe and looking straight at me.