In honor of Daylight Savings Time

[fljustice]

Several years ago, I wrote a short story called "Time Again" with daylight savings time as part of its theme. It's always been one of my favorites because the protagonist was based (very) loosely on my grandfather. It won an honorable mention award, was published in Pirate Writing's Magazine and serialized on cans of coffee (long story!) Here's the first part. If it grabs you, follow the link to the whole story. (My apologies, I intended to post the whole thing, but I have to reformat every paragraph and I--forgive the pun--don't have the time!) You can read more of my short fiction on my website. Enjoy!

Time Again

© 1996 Faith L. Justice

“Goddam daylight savings time,” McElroy cursed as he reset the antique clocks in his shop. Seven grandfather clocks, eighteen cuckoo clocks, an even dozen musical clocks, and an assortment of character clocks from Felix the Cat to Teddy Roosevelt ticked, tocked, warbled and bonged at 9:00 a.m. All gleamed with polish and fresh paint.

McElroy pushed his wire spectacles up his nose and looked closely at his hands. The knuckles were swollen and the fingers beginning to twist with a hint of the grotesque to come. They throbbed with the effort of twisting keys and winding springs.

“Time,” he muttered pushing wisps of white hair behind his ears. “I have so little time left, and they rob me of an hour.” He pounded a painful fist on the oil-stained workbench. “What right does the government have to take away my time?” Two red spots appeared high on his bewhiskered cheeks and his breath came in short ragged gasps. He clutched his right arm to his chest.

“Time. No time. No,” he whispered as he fell to his knees, knocking over a ceramic ballerina poised to dance.

McElroy came to awareness. He moved - shuffled actually - in a line of people stretching across a flat, featureless plain. A low mist swirled around his ankles, but it didn’t feel wet. The temperature maintained that perfect balance between warm and cool that you don’t feel at all. He gazed, mouth open, at the people shuffling ahead. Old people on canes, skeletal children carried by adults with scabrous limbs, others with no visible afflictions.

He raised his hands to rub his face and drive the muzziness away. His hands. He stopped and stared at them until a large woman in a flowing dashiki bumped him from behind. He shambled on turning his hands palm up then back again. What was wrong with his hands?

No pain. That’s what was wrong. Or right. His hands were still swollen with beginning arthritis, but there was no pain. He patted his chest. He wasn’t breathing. He opened his mouth to scream but, with no air to work the vocal chords, his mouth just stretched into a tortured “O.”

“You’ll get used to it,” a voice chimed in his mind.

“Get used to what?” he replied in the same mental speech, then clapped his hands to his head as if trying to hold the thoughts in.

“To being dead,” the voice replied.

McElroy heard a low murmur of thousands of voices - mumbling, singing, crying, and praying. The sound swelled and diminished like the waves of the ocean.

“Who are you? How did I get here?”

“My name’s Sheila. I don’t know how you got here but I died of AIDS.” A small dark hand with neatly polished nails cupped his elbow and steadied him when he stumbled. He looked down at an ethereally thin woman. She may once have been beautiful. Now her skin pulled taut over a glowing spirit. She grinned and gave him that universal sign of encouragement - thumbs up.

“AIDS!” He cringed away.

Her grin turned to a frozen mask. “No need to worry now, Pops. We’re dead. If you don’t want to talk to me, fine. I just hadn’t found anyone in our immediate vicinity who spoke English.” She surveyed the crowd. “Bye, Pops. That one looks interesting.” She drifted toward a dazed-looking young man carrying a motorcycle helmet; his head tilted at an impossible angle.

“Wait! Don’t leave me, Sheila.” McElroy grabbed the young woman’s arm. She pushed his hand away with surprising strength.

“Don’t touch me. No one touches me unless I let them, you hear?” If she were using speech, he’d be wiping a spray of spit from his face.

“I’m sorry, Sheila. I’m confused. Stay,” he pleaded. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

She looked up at his bent frame and frightened face. “Okay, Pops, I don’t know much more than I already told you. We’re dead. Someone said in Spanish that at the head of the line we get to talk to the gatekeeper - St. Peter if you’re Christian.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose someone or something else if you’re not. No one could say what’s on the other side of the gate. I guess we’ll find out in time.”

Time. He pulled an antique pocket watch from his vest. 9:07. He jabbed a finger at the face. “It’s stopped. I was cheated. I should have another hour of life.”

“Yeah, and I should have had fifty more years. So what’s new?”

“No. I mean daylight savings time. It’s really only 8:07. They owe me an hour.”

Sheila’s small frame started to shake with tremors. She put her hand to her mouth as if to keep in the laughter she couldn’t voice. McElroy kept waiting for the gasp and high trilling giggle that never came.

“That’s rich. You’re owed an hour because of daylight savings time. How’re you going to get it back? Demand it from the gatekeeper?”

His jaw set with a stubborn clamp. “I’m certainly not going to waste my time hanging around on this line. That hour was stolen from me and I’ll get it back. I’m going to the head of the line. Coming with me?” He held out his hand. (Read the whole story here.)

[LoveHistory]

I'm liking this already!

[fljustice]

Thanks, LovesHistory! I need to get back to writing short fiction. It's been all novels, all the time with the occasional non-fiction blog post. Sometimes an image gets stuck in my head or a sad news item makes me want to rewrite the ending...If I don't get it down quickly, it fades away.

[Greg]

To Faith
considering how much I loath daylight saving in the Antipodes I can well and truly understand your grandfather's gripe. I can never get used to the hour shift in summer and feel like I've lost an hour's sleep every night its on. As to your story, I loved it. A good question if you had an hour to redeem yourself what would you do?

Regards Greg

[fljustice]

Thanks, Greg! It is an interesting question, isn't it?

[Ken]

[quote=""Greg""] A good question if you had an hour to redeem yourself what would you do?[/quote]

If I was on the verge of death and was granted one more hour, I would (given that I was in a state of health that would allow me to enjoy it) crack open a bottle (or two) of Dom Perignon and invite my family and friends to drink to my passing with no regrets and with joy and happiness for the time I had spent with them.

Then I'd ask God for another ten years!!!!

[fljustice]

And then the question becomes, "Why can't we do this without the one hour deadline?" My family was never the "hugging" sort until we lost one of my brothers, suddenly, a couple of decades ago. Now we always hug when we leave each other and say "I love you" when we hang up the phone. I read a book on simplifying your life, a long time ago, and one of the pieces of advice that stuck with me, was "use the good china." In essence, drink the champagne, take the bubble bath, use the fluffy towels, light the candles, etc. We should treat ourselves and others more kindly, more often.