Walter's Day I was already rather late for my lecture: perhaps the lunchbar ought to hire more staff in the week. Well, in any case; as I had decided when I finally emptied the paper bag's contents onto my park bench; you know you're in the city at lunchtime when your burger needs meticulous reassembly. And yet I had, despite the ensuing slop of half-warm mayonnaise, polished it all off in record time, one eye always on the clocktower, and was now bustling on up the hill, terribly bloated and very short of breath. Now, when one never seems to have the time (or, when one does, the money) to purchase for himself a decent portable timepiece, I find that he will quickly and unconsciously adopt a large library of various methods and techniques for deriving the time of day without one. The position of the sun is most naturally the first reference which presents itself, for after all, this physical phenomenon is the very basis upon which man's most anxious obsession is imposed. However, somewhere along the line there arose a demand for more accuracy. It seems that people wanted to do more in a day and so needed less time to do it in. This resulted in smaller and smaller divisions of the day, and the manifestation of this necessity, the great machination that is the twenty-four hour, one-thousand-four-hundred-and-forty minute, eighty-six-thousand-and-four-hundred second day requires a greater sense of precision than any kind of amateur astrology can provide. Thus the watch-less pedestrian will refer to clocks of architecture or convenience. If such a man find himself in a shop of some sort, he might take advantage of a timepiece which the idle teenage employee is giving quite the dirty look. On a bus or on a train, he may discover a reference for driver and passengers alike, positioned usually up high and at the front of the cabin; or else the _proficient_ timeless man may glance surreptitiously over the shoulder of one of his more organazized travelling companions and catch sight of his wristwatch, or, in this modern age of fanglery and micro-gizmatics, the digital reference on his mobile phone or laptop computer screen. On the streets, even when not in sight of the nearest clocktower, one can work out to the quarter hour by its chime what the time is, providing he is confident of the hour. For the exact time, or when suddenly caught in the not-so-sweet spot between two slightly displaced sources of tolling, one can usually find a telephone booth and a number to dial, or else duck into an aforementioned shop, a gallery, library, information point, or bank and pretend some kind of casual interest; or possibly, so as to avoid any mild awkwardness which might arise between vendor and false consumer, he may manage to catch sight of a clock through the front window. As for myself, I hadn't had a watch for years, and indeed in my entire lifetime had owned only one. This was a gift from an uncle, which I received around the time I was coming of age, when it was supposed I would begin to need such an item. He was a retailer, and I suppose he had secured the trinket at a very decent staff discount, but this cheapness didn't bother me in the least, especially in my youthful excitement over its many functions, multiple alarms, and ultra-bright backlight. At the sight of my beaming face my uncle smiled and said, “It's good, isn't it? Now, when the batteries run down you just pass it on back to me and I'll get it going again; I'll be able to get the right replacements.” I was thrilled, and for several months felt very organized and responsible. Soon however (rather soon) my toy ran down; so I promptly returned it to my uncle. “Ah yes, my boy,” he said, “I said I'd replace those batteries for you, didn't I? Well, I've moved on from that business, but I'll see what I can do. There you are, I'll return it just as soon as I've got it going again.” I reluctantly handed the gadget over, but I should have gone to the jeweller's and replaced the parts myself, because the uncle (who except for this single perfunctory birthday gift had never shown much interest in me at all) never returned the watch. And so it was with thoughts such as these, my anger at my uncle, my loss of faith in the wristwatch, and how I made do without one, that I hurried up the hill towards my lecture. Concerned with whether I needed to exert myself really to such an extent as I was (I figured on about five minutes' lateness being appropriate), I kept an eye out for any kind of time reference so that I might determine whether or not to ease the pace. There were, however, and despite my wealth of experience, no such resources apparent. The hill I was climbing—and the sweat was beginning to wet my collar—dominated my view to the right and ahead of me, and my views of the city below and behind me were obstructed by the trees on the other side of the street. No bell could be heard; my lecture was in a rather out of the way sector of the city. I was just beginning to feel the compound panic caused by the sweat of the ascent and the paranoia of the appointment-maker when a thought occurred to me as I passed a parking meter to my left. I wheeled back and slid down the hill to peer a little closer at the LCD screen on the front of the large, box-shaped meter. (I'm all for the integration of technological advance into the simplicity of everyday life, by the way: I mean, why insert your coin and twist a dial when you can consult a computer screen, punch a few buttons, and obtain a comprehensive printout detailing the exact conditions of your legal agreement with the local government as pertaining to whichever space you so wish to occupy? I'm also quite sure that technology has made the life of the meter-person much more rewarding: a simple pocketwatch, a pad and pencil, and a stick of chalk must have made for a rather cumbersome arrangement back before the implementation of the all-in-one handheld-console module which you see in widespread use nowadays—in fact, I think it quite likely that eventually we will be seeing less and less of the meter-people altogether, since they soon will be able to monitor every parking meter in the city from behind a huge bank of computers buried deep in its heart; fines will be charged to and automatically deducted from the vehicle owner's online bank account; a new bureau will be instituted to deal with the more complex disputes which may arise as a result of this next move forward; and all in all this will be a good thing: No more parking tickets melted to your windscreen by the rain) Upon closer inspection, I found that this meter did in fact display the time of day; probably as a reference for people who might or might not need to top up their purchased time. In any case, the time according to this piece was two-fifty-two p.m. My lecture being on the hour and still a reasonable distance away, I figured that if I hurried I could still just make it in time. As I approached the next meter, (this was a long street, and a _very_ long hill) I mopped my damp brow with the back of my hand, and, out of mild paranoia, stopped to glance at the display on this one. I was a little taken aback though, because this time the meter read two-fifty-one p.m. I was puzzled. Had time somehow shifted into reverse as I maintained my forwardwise trajectory up the hill? Perhaps the clocks were out of sync with each other. I hurried on, eager to see what time the next meter gave. Now, my dead reckoning is unreliable at best, but I figured that the calculations I'd obtained by this running fix I'd embarked on could hardly err by more than a few minutes, so you can imagine my surprise when the third meter told there be a _full quarter hour_ before I was due at the lecture. I paused to think a while. It could no longer be the case that the meters were not exactly synchronized: a full six or seven minutes' difference was unacceptable; it rejected that theory. No, I decided that either my newly discovered reference was wholly unreliable and bore no relation whatsoever to time in reality, or else... could time really be going backwards? No; absurd... Well, in any case, I now had a lot more time to play with, so I decided that I could afford the leisure of a pace more agreeable to the digestion of my queasy lunch. Of course if things carried on the way they were... I mopped my brow again and idled up the hill, now feeling able to _enjoy_ my surroundings rather than urged to briskly traverse them. The hill was too steep to build on really and had therefore been left as parkland. It was a pleasant, natural setting on either side, which was supposed to let you know that you were ascending towards the pleasures of academia to be found at the university above and leaving behind the dull pollution of the city below. It was _supposed_ to be like an extended garden gateway, but it struck me, as I was admiring all this, that this was the first time I had noticed its beauty. I had finally pulled up next to the penultimate parking meter, and since it now seemed I had well in excess of a few hours (the shock had worn off by now), I decided that I could easily afford a little rest before tackling the last twenty yards of the climb. I sat down on the low wall adjacent the sidewalk, built when they'd cut the road out of the hillside, and admired the view some more. I wondered at how I could have been lecturing and living in this city so many years and not noticed the things I was seeing now, as, over the tree-tops receding down the hill and past the high-rises in the distance I could see the ocean glittering in the afternoon sun. I then turned my attention to the other pedestrians bustling their ways to and from the city, their eyes either downcast or glazed and not-seeing. Boy, were they _moving_. In fact, the longer I sat there and thought about it; the longer I watched them, the more it seemed as if I were watching one of those sped up car chases you see in old films but with people for cars. And yet despite their alarming haste there was still not a drop of excitement to be seen in their eyes. They stared ahead and their mechanical legs conveyor-belted them up or down the hill. This annoyed me, particularly in contrast with the view I was trying to enjoy. I got up and stepped back out on to the sidewalk. A businessman coming up from behind swerved around me and his leather briefcase swung out a little only to return swiftly to his side where it once again brushed neatly against his stiff gait. I thought I could see a scowl in the back of his head. Only just having recovered from this rudeness I found myself bore down upon by a fresh assailant; only this time it was from the front that this female automaton propelled itself toward, through, and past me. They were coming on in regular files, streaming up from behind and to my left and coursing down around my right, leaving me whirling in an eddy of black coattails and paper receipts. I ducked out to the low stone wall before I got trampled to a pulp or decapitated by a briskly swung umbrella. I watched in marvel as the urgent tempo and thronging numbers increased. Finally, giving up the sidewalk, I began to tight-rope walk my way along the top of the wall towards the brow of the hill. Thoughts were racing through my head like their object past my feet as I plodded upwards in a daze. It seemed like it had taken forever when I finally reached the summit. I decided to check the time; perhaps to make sure that it hadn't. I stood for a while watching the pedestrians. The streets were crawling with activity. It was also the busiest automobile traffic I had seen on that street; or anywhere, for that matter; and yet there was not a horn or siren to be heard nor a finger-waving motorist to be seen. The intersection which converged on the top of the hill was an autonomous machine shuttling the vehicles seamlessly. The cars, I noticed, were all similar in style; all compact models which two strong men could probably tip, and either a color without a statement or a color which said, “I have something to say!” and that's about it. From my new vantage point I could see in the far distance the sea a little better. It was glittering as brightly as ever in the afternoon sun, and it seemed to me that the city in its foreground had grown darker and dingier by comparison. It looked like a darkening shadow engulfing the brilliant precious stone of the ocean. I could have watched it all day if it hadn't made me think so much. I reverted instead to my instinct for the time. The final parking meter was nearly on the corner. I stood a while longer on the same spot, looking at the foot-traffic I had to navigate, waiting for a gap. When the flow seemed only to be increasing I decided that no gap was going to eventuate and that I'd just have to try my luck. I dove into the melee and washed up a little further down on the curb of the sidewalk, clinging to the front of the parking meter. I clawed my way up so I could see the screen... and now it told me I was _late_ for my lecture. I almost blacked out. Had the first few meters been playing a cruel prank on me? Should I not have been, then, rushing about like all those robots around me rather than kicking a can, whistling a tune, and wondering what all the fuss was about? Feelings of neglected duty flooded back into me. Now that I had faltered and missed my lecture I felt immensely guilty. Not only had I faltered, but I had erred in judgement and rejoiced in my mistake. I felt like a rat. I looked at the screen again. My eyes did not lie. It was true, in ten minutes the class would be over. But what was this? I looked closer. There was a date next to the time: it was only late afternoon _the day before_. I closed my eyes and bent my head against the plastic screen. How could the day have changed? It certainly seemed, according to the clocks, that time was stuck in reverse; and yet dusk had not fallen, nor dawn risen. The same bright afternoon sun was still beating down as fiercely as ever on the crystal waters of the harbor. I peered over the top of the meter box. Yes, if there was one thing in this strange new city I'd found myself pitched into that I could rely upon, it was the silver gleam I could always catch sight of on the horizon. Suddenly, in a passionate moment of consciousness, I cast myself free of the rock I'd clung to and let myself be washed away back down the hill. I certainly wasn't late for my lecture any longer, and, to tell the truth, I didn't really care anymore; whether it would in fact at any time eventuate or not. Any previous obligations had now been replaced by a compelling attraction for that glittering sea which was the only concept it seemed I could trust. And so I washed down the hill in no time at all and into the city streets. The sidewalks here were wider, but only because they had to be. The hill behind me was a winding rivulet compared to the tidal rip I now found myself sucked into. We poured through the deeply cut ravine, walled with office blocks, the cars rushing straight through the middle, we following in their wake, with little backwaters forming at the edges around trendy food bars and cardboard coffee shops as more and more pedestrians filled the ranks. The sky above was a murky strip of blue, turned green with smog. The air was damp and dry at once; infectious and choking. I was packed in like a sardine, ten abreast and in an endless file of walking suits. I can't stand sardines. I wriggled my way into one of the more humble looking coffee shops. I finally burst out of the rush and into some measure of calm, at least once I'd secured a seat for myself. I didn't have to wait forever; just had to be quick to pounce on one of the continuously vacated tables before some other business jackal snatched it out from under me. I got a window stool, but watched the entire contents of the cafe turn over three times entirely within ten minutes before daring to look outside. The waiters seemed to float, jetting from table to table as quickly as their load would allow; often too quickly. Slices of cake would be left behind in mid-air by a plate rapidly accelerating towards the person who paid for it, and would hang there just long enough for some other adroit employee to scoop it out of the ether and, with a twirl, deliver it en route to his own customer's table without losing time, as the original waiter was already taking orders at table three, down the back. I yanked one of these fellows up short by the collar just long enough to order a hot chocolate and within seconds a huge cup slid in front of me, slopping to the lip with momentum. I took a sip and almost sprayed the fucking _coffee_ all over the window in front of me. Go figure. Well, I decided I needed a pretty good reason to stay in that place, so I looked out the window in front of me. It was some view. The melee was as thick as ever. Traffic light phases resolved within seconds. I couldn't see the traffic itself for the marching column of pedestrians immediately before my face. The sun reflecting in the office windows above their heads was a pale orange orb, burning dirty. I looked over to the clocktower and saw the arms winding steadily back on their well-greased pivot. This sight, combined with the too-hot coffee I'd forced myself not to spurt everywhere, was too much. I felt suddenly sick to the stomach and nauseous in the head. I slumped forward over the table. Almost instantly, some efficient kitchen hand scooped me up and bore me to the rear of the building. I didn't even have time to let my forehead thud into the worn-smooth bench top. It was coming up towards me then fell away suddenly, then into darkness as all the changes in momentum went to my head and I blacked out. I lost consciousness well before we reached the back door, upon which the words 'Staff Only' were ominously printed. I woke up in a room. You always wake up in a room. The curtains are always drawn and there's usually a bed under your back and a tray of food and water just within arm's reach. You don't really feel like food right now. You have no idea how long you were out for. You have no idea what the time is, whether it's day or night (those curtains could be covering more wall for all the light they're letting in), or even what day it is. The room is otherwise bare. There's a door leading onto a dark, carpeted, and long hallway; but you tend to be either strapped to your bed or drugged when you come to, and a door to you then is a fucking cruel taunt. If there was one thing original about this room, then, it was that I was neither sedate nor confined. I got out of that room. The hallway was indeed long, but it had a rather original feature of its own in that there were no doors leading off of it with cracks of light underneath them and cigar smoke seeping through the lintel. No doors for me to silently put my ear to or gently ease open for the sake of suspense and curiosity. No doors at all, in fact, besides the one I'd just come through and the one at the end. So when I reached the one at the end I didn't suppose there was much point in being surreptitious to any great extent, my escape options being so very pathetic. So I opened the door. This room was bigger and more populated. Population was about ten individuals and shelf-loads of books. There weren't any windows to curtain; there were candelabra and overhead bulbs. There were couches and tables and chairs. There was carpet on the floor and the smoke from the candelabra mingled with that of the pipe which a man in the corner was sucking on, considering what seemed by the plain cover to be some kind of boring periodical. This man, short, black shoes, grey suit, whitening hair, constituted the entire roughly ten percent of the population that was male (counting myself out, that is: I felt so out of place I could hardly be included in the statistics). The rest of the room's occupants were (consequently) female. They were all studying various plain-covered volumes, their legs crossed, their glasses falling down their noses. Nobody acknowledged my entrance or paid me any kind of attention at all. The room looked a little like an antechamber but the only door I could see was the one which I came through. The thought of returning to my waking environment (maybe taking a closer look behind those curtains) didn't last too long in my mind. The door swung closed behind me. I went over to one of the walls and pulled down a book arbitrarily. A facsimile of rather an outdated text. I worked my way around the room, the readers still pretending not to notice me, casually engrossed in their scripture. Every wall seemed to hold some kind of ancient almanac or treatise or text. To be frank, I wasn't all that interested at the given moment, so I took a seat on an empty couch and put my feet up on the low table in front of it. Nobody cared. I almost felt like a girl in a new dress, trying to reap some attention. Giving up, I tilted my head back with my hands clasped behind it and contemplated the ceiling a while before resting my eyes. It was certainly a warm and cozy environment, but the unvented smoke kept me awake. The girls didn't seem to mind the haze through which they seemed to me like strange literary specters. I patted my jacket at last, to see whether my effects were intact. They were, including my own wretched pipe, which I fetched out, really just for the desperate purpose of engaging the fellow in the corner. I wasn't really out of matches, but I got up, went over next to the silent man, and asked quietly for some tinder. “Why yes, Walter, you just have a seat there while I sort you out,” he said as if he were my father, hardly looking up from his preoccupation. I dragged the chair underneath me, dumb. I sat down sheepishly and watched him from beneath my eyebrows mess about in his pockets for a light. He knew my name. I didn't know whether this was strange or ordinary, given the circumstances of late, so I sat quiet and watched. Soon he stretched towards me a short arm ending abruptly in short fingers, where a long match burned like a star. I leaned in to meet him and cupped my hand and pipe around it. I leaned back, tugged on the mouthpiece, swallowed the smoke, and bit back tears, folding a leg onto my knee. Nonchalance, I had found; or pretending you know what you're doing, is what gets you through a situation like that. He looked at me. At last he looked at me. His eyes were slate sunk in years of experience. His expression was of thought, and boredom towards all else. You could tell he was worried he'd soon be bored of thought too. Nevertheless, at his age you just hold out what you've got, for suckers like me to follow in your sad old footsteps. I sat mesmerized by his tiny slate eyes. They glinted once, almost metallic, then the creases around them encroached a little further and they returned to their dull slate color. He resumed his reading, rocking imperceptibly in his chair to some slow classical strain and wetting his pipe. I just stared at him, choking down plastic bagfuls of smoke. Just as I was persuading myself that I could summon the courage to ask him some question, though I had no idea what it might be—perhaps how he came to know my name—the wall opened up. Nothing in the room was startled but I. Nobody looked up. The women with their quietly amused expressions were still perusing their journals. The man who knew my name puffed as gently as ever. As for me, my pipe was out. I guess there's always a door. A door in the library, masked by a bookshelf. It's usually triggered by the book with no dust on it or the bung key on the piano or the right eye of the bust on a pedestal. There was a man standing in this doorway. I squinted at him in the much brighter (definitely electric) light of the room behind him. He was a man similar to my friend in the corner only taller, and all grey. He knew my name too. He said: “Walter, you're wanted,” and held the door open for me. I kind of mashed the pipe into a pocket somewhere as I got up and shakily traversed the room. I stood in front of the new man for a while but he just smiled and held the door open a little wider, so I went through. He nodded as I passed, then let himself in and closed the door behind, leaving me outside and alone. Except I was hardly alone. I pushed my jaw back up towards the rest of my face as I turned away from the closed portal only to have it fall right back down. I was facing a full theater of eager young faces, the boys half shaven, the girls ready to learn, all bright eyes on me. I looked behind me but the edges of the door had melted into the wall. I turned slowly on my heel and shuffled towards the lectern where I found some lecture notes in a neat ordered pile. They were in my handwriting. They were ready to go. I sucked up some courage and choked on a little residual tobacco smoke. I cleared my throat and looked up. The air was tense with silence. Some of the bright eyes had concern creeping into them. I looked at the clock on the back wall. It read seven minutes past three. I was a little late. I continued to stare at that clock for a full minute; just to be sure. It felt like a full minute. I looked down at my notes, cleared my throat again, looked up once more, and began to deliver my lecture.