Talking Clock

The Hands Of Time

Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind. - Hawthorne

Never have I been so conscious of time - of that which remains to me, of its passing, its tides - than now. It's my tenth year as manager in a high technology center. Work, it seems to me, has been a juggling act, a series of balls and blades and flaming torches to be kept in the air for as long as it takes. 

In the last couple of years, my Pyramid talking clock has been my wingman. Primly perched atop my desk console, it announces the time as I arrive. It.Is.Seven.O'Clock.A.M. I grumble, Bright though not early, but on the dot. I'll check the download, I acquiesce submissively to the first order of the day. My smile is thin. I fix it with a direct gaze. It peers at me, amused.

Pyra is triangular, a petite four by almost six inches tall with a three-inch girth. Slim and lightweight, it faithfully alerts me with a loud signal to upcoming departmental meetings. All hands on deck. I nod in resigned agreement. Testing new operating system, the summons blares. Coming! I flare back in a rasping whisper.

Around midday I drum my fingers on the arm of my chair, thereafter impatiently pressing my clock's top button. Is it time for lunch yet? It tells me, in a clear androgynous voice. It.Is.Twelve.O'Clock.P.M. I sniff gratefully. On the way out, I check the beeper tethered to the pocket of my lab coat in case I need to be pulled back from my delicious seven-layer burrito lunch to troubleshoot the 'screen of death,' our epithet for a computer freeze. 

Over the dense repetitiousness of my workweek, certain things have occurred like clockwork: beta-testing new procedures, writing instructions, training lab techs, battling the call, System down! It's the latter that makes everyone scamper behind the scenes, while a low-level but well-spoken technician is sent upfront to assure users, Just a hiccup. All will be well in a nanosecond.

In retrospect, I'm not sure why I've bought this timepiece. Maybe because its hourly reminder diminishes my sense of solitude. Maybe because punctuality is the virtue of the bored. I lean toward it slightly and lower my voice, parodying a confidence. I can't be late when Big Brother calls, can I?

It seems like a long day. I feel exhausted, not the clean exhaustion of completing a workout at the gym, but a kind of weariness, the feeling of being transparent, insubstantial, as though my body would offer no resistance if the wind had chosen to lift me into the sky. I'm squirming in my seat.

Then, joy of joys! Pyra announces, robot-like, in a monotone voice. It.Is.5.O'Clock.P.M. I stifle a yawn. I bid it goodbye, waving my hands dismissively. See you in the morning, I say almost inaudibly. It looks like it's nodding, absent-mindedly. 

I move my mouth in the motion of a smile I do not feel.