Time Out

9:02am, Monday 29th November 2019 -

I stared down at the large wad of files on the desk under my nose. I tried to count each paper, running a finger over the creased edges. A tiny red stain muddied the edge of one of the files, and I looked down at the kernel-sized bloody slit that lined my fingertip.

Someone coughed behind me. I turned and looked up, feeling like a child caught picking his nose. Sylvia was staring down at me with raised eyebrows, head tilted, chins tripling.

“Benji, it would be great if I could have these done by lunch.” She looked from me to the stack, eyebrows raised. “If you want, I could always lighten the load and give half to Ellis.” I glanced at Ellis, a few desks away from me; he was narrowing his eyes at his screen, tapping away at his keyboard with one hand, the other lost in his dark cheesepuff hair.

“It’s okay.” I turned back to Sylvia, clicking my tongue as I patted the stack in front of me. “I can do it. Easy.”

“Alright, just don’t overwhelm yourself.” Sylvia ruffled my hair, and I grimaced because her long nails always got tangled in my curls. Before I could retort, she had trudged off, her heels click-clacking on the vinyl tile floor. I heard Matt laugh from the other side of my desk, and I peered over my computer to see him grinning at me, a couple of crumbs falling from his beard as he chuckled.

I glared up at the clock on the far side of the room. It was 9:03am and I had four hours to file the stack. No problem. I felt my leg shaking, up and down, side to side, in an unsteady rhythm.

I rested my chin on my knuckles and stared up at the clock face. The hands hovered over the bold numbers, threatening to pass the minutes and hours. I focused on the second hand, but it was too loud to make out the ticking over the whirring of the printer, clicking of keyboards and Sylvia’s tapping heels. I watched the numbers change in the corner of my screen. 9:04am. 9:05.

Even when I returned my attention to the files on my desk, I could feel the clock hands ticking and the tiny, neon white numbers lingering in my peripheral vision.

7:00am, Tuesday 30th November 2019

The next morning, I woke up with a jump to the wailing of my alarm and I scrambled for my phone, jabbing the ‘stop’ button repeatedly. The room looked like static, and I blinked a couple of times but that did not get rid of the greyish hue that blurred my vision. The 7am cloudy morning haze seeped through the curtains, barely rousing me from my slumber. I sat up in bed and looked down at myself - the warm and stagnant air had caused my white T-shirt to become dark with sweat and it clung tightly to my skin.

My alarm blared again as I was picking up the kettle. Muttering under my breath, I picked up my phone and squinted at the screen, which still read 7am. The high pitched ringing of the alarm felt like an electric razor drilling into my skull - I grumbled to myself and winced as I hit the ‘stop’ button with my knuckles because I had spilt scalding water on my fingers.

On the bus ride to work, I felt like my eyelids were being gently tugged shut and my head was glued to a boulder, and as soon as I was starting to doze off, my phone blared again, causing me to jolt upright in my seat. I turned my phone off and my sweating hands made the device feel like a bar of soap. I pursed my lips tightly as I felt the entire bus eyeing me, and with a huff, I shoved my phone into the bottom of my bag between my sandwich and two books, ignoring the dazzling '7am' that flashed repeatedly on the screen.

Even after I had made it into work and reached my desk, I could feel my phone vibrate in my bag again, so I took it out and stuffed it in my locker, muffling it with my blazer and my tattered copy of The Da Vinci Code.

I worked continuously for what seemed like hours and did not notice the day going by. When my stomach started to grumble, I took a quick glance at the clock on the far wall, and noticed that it still read 7am. I pulled out my phone. Still 7am. I looked over at Matt, at the desk opposite me devouring a bacon sandwich, crumbs scattering over his keyboard.

I manoeuvred around the desk on my swivel chair and shoved my phone screen in his face, nearly causing him to drop his sandwich. “This isn’t funny, Matt.” I looked at him and clenched my jaw. “You know I don’t like it when you pull stuff like that.”

Matt frowned. “What are you on about?”

“What have you done to the time?” I demanded.

Matt pulled his phone out of his pocket and showed me his greasy screen. “I don’t think it’s just you, mate.” The 7am stared back at me. I gritted my teeth, praying that the numbers would change.

I looked around the office. Everyone was reclined in their chairs. Some were playing online chess. Others were conversing by the printers, or sauntering in and out of the kitchen. I felt a lump in my throat, so I hurried over to the clock on the far side of the wall, pulling up a chair and trying to balance on it as it swivelled under me. I grabbed the plastic clock and replaced the batteries. “That should do it.” I set it back up on the wall, breathing a sigh of relief, but the second hand only continued to stare me down. It flicked in place, too subtly for anyone to notice until they were gawking at it from inches away.

I felt my pulse rising and a lump form in my throat, and I started to clutch at the tie around my neck, yanking it loose. I grabbed the clock from the wall again as I heard Sylvia speaking gently, “Benji, calm down, it’s going to be okay.” She laid a hand on my shoulder and I recoiled.

Ellis sauntered out of the kitchen then: “Oh yeah, have you not heard?” He looked at the three of us, his beady eyes continually darting to the clock I was now cradling. “It’s like there’s a national time out.”

Matt took a seat and kicked his feet up onto the table. “Well that’s good news for us.” He crossed his arms behind his head. “I guess we have forever to do things now.”

I looked from Matt to Ellis, then from Ellis to Sylvia. “How are you all so calm?” I yelled. The three of them stared at me, and now the rest of the office was looking in my direction as if I was a threat. “This is not how it’s meant to be!” I spun around and made a run for the door, the wall clock still in my arms. I scrambled down the stairs, skipping three steps at a time, uncaring as I pushed past people on their way up.

When I reached the ground floor, I took a few careful steps out of the building, peering down the street. It was not deserted, so it couldn’t possibly be that late. Shops were still open. It couldn’t be later than 5pm. I continued to make my way down the street, feeling like a lost boy in a supermarket. Children pranced alongside their parents, so maybe it was 3:30pm, and schools had just finished for the day. I shook my head and started tugging at my hair, feeling my stomach churn.

Men in suits, office workers like me, leant against shop windows, cigarettes in hand, chatting and staring at the sky. Maybe it was lunchtime.

A woman walked out of the bakery, untying her apron, pulling a small book from her pocket as she took a seat outside the shop. Maybe it was the evening because that’s when the bakery shut for the night.

I stopped in my tracks, trying to control my shuddering shoulders. I clutched the clock to my chest and felt my whole body quiver.

How was everybody so calm?