Monday 11:31 P.M.
Gabe wore an analog watch. He’d paid twenty bucks for it at a garage sale ten years ago, and it worked perfectly fine, as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t averse to technology; he had a computer at home and used a smart phone, but he made a point of using his old-school watch to check the time. He flicked his wrist. The dark green sleeve shifted up slightly, allowing him a quick glance. The second hand swept around like a saw blade smoothly slicing through the softness of time. There were no tick-tick pauses, which some watches used; false hesitations that belied the reality of time’s relentless continuum.
Sixteen minutes to go.
He wondered if the speed of the last three days passing was anything like the final seventy-two hours a man on death row might experience. Though for it to be the same, the man on death row must be certain his time is up, the years of appeals finally exhausted, there’ll be no call from the governor.
In the current situation, Gabe was the only one who knew there’d been a death sentence—and a call from the governor wasn’t coming.
Late last Friday night he’d been working the third floor in the Physics Department. It was not unusual for a few graduate students or professors to linger well into the evening, any day of the week, and he’d run into several of these over the first few hours of his shift that night.
Fridays were his favorite day of the week. After sweeping the floors, which was done daily Monday through Friday, it was time for the end of week floor polishing using the Silentec polisher. The machine hummed smooth and quiet, floating on a large, circular buffing pad, and only required slight pressure from his fingers to move it left and right, forward and backward, a dance of two long-practiced partners.
Through the machine’s handles a quiet vibration radiated up his arms like an indefatigable masseuse. The floors behind him were a trail of gleaming tiles in wait of Monday’s throng of students, professors, and administration staff. That he did it all over again each week never bothered him. It was something to look forward to. A week-long tick of time.
He was glad this machine (or his broom or mop) hadn’t been automated, but he always figured eventually they would be—the university had been experimenting with robot floor cleaners at the library—and he hoped the inevitable obsolescence of the job would occur after he’d retired on a university pension.
On most nights he worked straight through his shift, not taking the mandated breaks or lunch. As far as he was concerned, this was an advantage of working when Human Resources wasn’t. Friday night, though, he decided to take a short break, and chose a small alcove attached to the third-floor conference room.
A few minutes into his break, he heard familiar voices enter the room: Professors Smits, Dietz, and Albers. Something in their voices gave him pause and stopped him from immediately announcing to them his presence in the alcove. Two of the voices were rife with excited fear.
Albers voice was the first one Gabe heard clearly. “My God, it’s confirmed. I hoped we were wrong.”
Dietz said, “Christ, we’re not even going to make it to midnight on Monday: Eleven forty-seven pee-em. That’s it. It’s over.” His voice sounded beaten and scared.
“Well, now that we know for sure, do we give people a chance to prepare to meet their makers or keep them in ignorant bliss?” said Albers. “Might the latter be the humane thing to do?”
Smits’ voice was less animated than the other two professors, almost a monotone. “A maker who’d do this doesn’t deserve peace be made by a single soul. The hell with Him.”
Dietz spoke again. “Jesus, I’m an atheist, and I’m thinking of making peace.”
“Suit yourself,” said Smits.
“We need to let Grunewall know, at least,” said Dietz. Let him make the call on whether to announce it. He has a direct line to the President.”
“Why,” said Smits, not at all as a question. “This is beyond that. Beyond anything. Maybe it’s best to let him have these last days like the rest of the world, without us messing it up needlessly.”
“And we’d waste our own remaining time explaining it,” said Albers. “The explanation is irrefutable, but it’ll take several days to explain the calculations to those in authority, and then what? Here’s a last few hours of life knowing you’re all doomed. I’d rather spend those extra few hours with my grandchildren.”
The voices lowered in volume, and Gabe couldn’t make out what was being said. He sat paralyzed with disbelief at what he’d just heard. These were three of the world’s most respected scientists. One of them had won a Nobel Prize.
He looked down at his watch, thinking for a moment that he actually heard the second hand; a terrifying sound under the circumstances.
The voice of one of the scientists rose in volume. “Alright,” said Dietz, “let’s go over to Grunewall’s and see what he thinks. He can make the final decision on what to do…”
Gabe remained in the alcove for several hours after the physicists left. The expression on his face showed no fear, just quiet thought. He left work at 2 a.m., feeling guilty about clocking out for eight hours of work, when he’d only done six. He lay awake in bed until 9 a.m., got up, and turned on the news.
No news about impending doom.
The lead story was a car crash that had killed three prominent university scientists. A drunk driver plowed head-on into their car. I guess they got their ignorant bliss, in a way. He turned off the television’s sound and sat stone-like for another hour, resembling the sitting statue of Ramses II.
Eventually, a sigh of a few seconds passed his lips. He stood, turned off the television.
After lunch, he called his parents. He told both of them he loved them. Twice. On Sunday, he went to breakfast at his favorite café and ate his favorite meal: Belgian waffles topped with strawberries and whipped cream. He took his blood pressure medicine when he returned home. After he swallowed the pills, he looked in the bathroom mirror and laughed. For lunch he microwaved his favorite frozen entree: Stouffer’s spaghetti and meatballs. He decided to skip dinner, and instead went for a walk around the neighborhood. He smiled and said hello to everyone he met, most of whom responded back with a polite, but surprised, hello.
The following morning, he didn’t take his blood pressure medicine.
Monday 11:42 P.M.
Nobody but Gabe was in the building. The Physics Department closed for the entire day in mourning for its lost colleagues. Classes were canceled, and none of the researchers showed up.
He flicked his wrist and glanced at the watch, telling himself he wouldn’t look at it again.
His fingers returned to the handle of the Silentec. The hum felt good in his hands. He wished it would last forever.
The tiles, in front and behind, gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Like flat diamonds of both no worth and incalculable worth, somehow at the same time.
He took a hard swallow, released a long breath, and continued. He made a quick mental calculation: He might make it to the end of the hall. With a few seconds left over.
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