Two Minutes

It was a great morning, as mornings go. I left my flat on time, a jumble of cereal and bread lumped all up in my stomach, feeling overly glad that it didn't have to get churned around by the thudding shamble I call running. I pulled up the sleeve of my suit – the cuff stylishly creased for once – to check my watch as I hurried to the station. Six oh thirteen.
 

Or six-thirteen.
 

Whatever.
 

Seventeen whole minutes to play with. A nigh objective eternity in this permanently fast-forwarded era. I slammed my cuff back over the watch, so as to keep the time from slipping away. It does that some times. I tried slowing my walk to an actual walk, you know, a relaxed sort of walk like some people claim to know how to do. No matter how hard I tried, I found myself subconsciously picking up pace shortly afterwards as if I my body simply wasn't used to such luxuries as calm strides. Honestly, it probably wasn't. So I loped onwards, briefcase banging against my knees, sure my watch would speed up if not viewed at five-second intervals. Am I the only one who indulges in contradicting beliefs?
 

I waded through the early people – those weird, alien people who have the magical ability to be on time every day – and marveled at their casual business-like strides. They moved with the utter confidence of a person with perfect self-awareness of their being-on-timeness, regardless of their velocity, regardless of what anyone else thought, thank you very much. Heck, they had probably planned the shortest route that also happened to sport a quick coffee-kiosk.
 

Dammit. Forgot the coffee again.
 

Well, no morning will ever be perfect. The sooner one embraces this particular fact, the sooner they get no comfort from it; still worth knowing, though, a small truth of everyday life.
 

Seventeen minutes – ah, scratch that, fifteen minutes – is a long time to get to a specific station, but a short time to get lost in the city in search of coffee. I'd have to soldier on until my legal twenty-minutes. Just got to push that tiredness to the back reaches of the mind.
 

I lifted the back of my hand to conceal a yawn. Eh. Never been too fancy at that Buddhist stuff. Time, time, time. Wrong turn, damn. I swerved around and apologized on reflex as I bumped my chin into someone's chest. The Someone looked like he wanted to start Something, then grunted and walked on. I shrugged and followed suite, carving my way through the throng of quietly competent Walkers and took the right turn.
 

The crowd thinned the closer I got to the station, Walkers being too good for busses, it seems. I let my posture straighten and reveled in my elbow-space. The immense feeling of relief I felt is something you won't realize before you've been squeezed in a huge throng of sweating people, being hurled around by their elbows-space. It feels good to not have dozens of hot breaths on your neck from time to time.
 

Time.
 

I checked my watch. Thirteen minutes. Closer to twelve really, but it feels better to say thirteen. That thin, generic looking second-hand is meant to be disregarded anyway. Life's too fast to be kept track of with fast things. Better to acknowledge our insufficient means to keep tabs on time and focus on the longer units that define it.
 

I was early. Whew. There's a first. My important-sounding footsteps slapped onto concrete, briefcase slapped onto thigh, forelock slapped onto forehead. I was half a step from running, half a shuffle short of shambling. My stomach seemed to realize this and there went my cereal and bread, tumbling and jumbling, fiendish flakes like butterflies on acid. That sounds misleading. In acid? Either way, I felt the familiar burn in my chest. They say slowing down helps with heartburn.
 

They say a lot of things.
 

I listen to none. There's other things to do. Always something else. I stifled another yawn, clenching my jaw against it. Maybe I'll have that coffee after all if an opportunity arises. Back of the mind, back of the mind. Where would that be located, anyway? The back of the mind. I should ask the Buddhists, next time I bump into one. The station loomed ahead, or The Station, as the large sign largely declared. Many things sound cooler when hoisted up by capital letters. Take Coffee Shop, for instance.
 

Oh god, a coffee shop. Bring me them electrifying molecules. A couple of dollars shifted hands and a steaming cup rested safely in my fingers. Eight minutes to go. I might have a couple minutes to sit down. I mean, eight minutes, right? No, too risky. The bus could leave early; better to be waiting, just in case. I walked to the specific stop, same one as yesterday, same one as the day before that. The coffee was hot and stung my tongue. I'll just let it sit for a while, it's not like it's going to effect me straight of the bat anyway; there's nothing stopping me from drinking it once I was there.

The bench was occupied by an, ah, burly fellow, to put it in a politically correct fashion; no way was I going to be able to squeeze onto it as well. By the looks of it, you'd need a crowbar, a crew and a spit for good luck to get Mr. Hubby to one side. So, instead of having a swell time sitting down, I found myself tapping my foot to the throbbing rhythm in my head.
 

Ach, just what I needed.
 

I could feel the drowsiness pushing at the backs of my eyes, a constant reminder of the static overload of last night. They say the internet is a blessing. They really do say a lot of things. It drinks your soul and spits it back into you hours later, making your head throb worse than a hangover, especially at ohfourhundred hours. When I was small, we played with sticks and stones. Always went to bed before late. Whatever late was; I've gone and forgotten.
 

I bet they'll say the same next generation. And the next one. And on and on and on. Until the clocks have to be rewound to allow for longer hours to stay awake.
 

When was that bus coming anyway? Still eight minutes to go. Hmm. Fast walking on my part, I suppose. The burly fellow on the bench seemed to be asleep, head rolled back and stationary. People don't do yoga while waiting for the bus nowadays, do they? Surely not. I risked a touch of coffee. Ach. Damned thing holds heat better than my heater. I sprung the plastic lid off, hoping to speed up the progress. I searched for the bin before realizing the guy was blocking it off with his considerable bulk.
 

Eh.
 

”'Scuse me?”
 

No answer.
 

Maybe the bloke was asleep after all. I shook him, gently. More of a quiet jiggle, really. Except. He didn't shake or jiggle. It was like shaking a stone.
 

Well, damn. Petrified fat men would definitely be high on the list of things I wouldn't want on my perfect morning. I looked around me, confused. Rightly confused, in my defense. You don't see people being all petrified on a day-to-day basis. What caught my gaze, oddly enough, was a leaf. A simple, ordinary, rather insignificant leaf. The thing about it was that it was floating.
 

Stationary.
 

In.
 

Mid-air.
 

My step slow and precisely placed, as if expecting it to flutter down with further disturbance, I approached it. I circled it at arm's length, assuring myself it wasn't just an illusion. Leaves aren't supposed to float. They're supposed to flutter. Best see what sorcery kept this one from doing so. Curiosity, cats, I know. At least they live interesting lives. I tried to pluck it out of the air. My fingers felt the soft texture of the leaf, but again, it felt like moving stone – the foundation stone of a skyscraper, to be precise.
 

I took a step back. There hung the leaf, defying me, defying gravity, as if frozen in time.
 

Time.
 

Oh-six-twenty-two.
 

I stared hard at the watch. The hour hand was stationary. The minute hand was stationary. The second hand was stationary. I stared longer. All hands shrugged, stuck on six-twenty-two. Now that I thought about it, I couldn't hear anything. All was serene. All was empty. A sudden thought hit me and I slapped my hand to my chest in a cold sweat. Whew. My heart was still beating. I slumped to the ground, setting the coffee down beside me. I regretted it instantly; I found the cup and its wholly real, sloshing contents to be encased in coldness, just like everything else. Heh, maybe now it was cool enough to drink.

Focus.
 

What would you do if the world stopped moving? Just, bam, no movement. I felt lost. Utterly lost in the deep end. The eerie stillness was a foreign feeling to me. City-bred, this lack of sound was like the lack of breath in my chest. The city lives, it breathes, it heaves. Now it felt dead. A cold, glazed pool in a faraway glade, hung in that suspense before the pebble hits the surface.
 

Static spiked through the intercom, startling me. The pebble hitting, meeting resistance, flowing out, resonating, breaking through. I'm not the only one? An immense wave of relief rushed through me, a flush of warmth I could feel in the tips of my ears. It doesn't take long for loneliness to take rest in your heart, and the sight of that leaf had left me a sigh short of tears. Human contact. Another thing most non-city dwellers might not understand as well as a pack rat like me. I wouldn't have to be alone.
 

I was going to be okay. I knew it.
 

The static leveled out and silence ensued. The thing about hope is that it waxes and wanes at the same astounding speeds. I was tapping my foot again, nervously now. I forced myself to stop. There was a thudding sound; the customary sound of someone testing the microphone. Then a clearing of a throat. Then the message that made my heart skip a beat.
 

”John James Smith. This is your Two-Minute Warning. I repeat, your Two-Minute Warning.”
 

...Or two. The voice was clear, without any distinctive stress on any word. Simple facts. Big words. Big letters.
 

”My two-minute what? What do you mean? The bus is early? I knew it!” I yelled back, voice cracking. Childish ignorance, perhaps, but you weren't there; you didn't feel it. The stillness enclosing you, seeping through the very pores of your body, making you numb, like the featureless voice relaying The Message. It wasn't easy. It wasn't absolutely one hundred-percent sane.
 

”Your Two-Minute Warning. Your permanent expirement is required in two minutes. In two minutes time, you will cease to exist.”
 

Gulp.
 

Well, damn. Damning damn on a dammit.
 

My Two-Minute... Damn.
 

I believed the message. Call it what you like – fate, destiny, a man on a microphone with a cold-ass voice, whatever – but I believed it. I had two minutes to live.
 

Two minutes.
 

Like many others, I've always wondered what I'd do in the last minutes of my life, if I knew they were my last. Like if an asteroid was hitting the Earth. Some say call your family, tell them they mean a lot to you. Some say hump anything that moves. Yet others would confess their secret crushes, or call long-time exes and wished them well. The important things in life one doesn't ever seem to find the initiative to do. The things that matter the most, yet are pushed back by work or school or swinging moods.
 

I've always wondered, and always drawn a blank.
 

I forced my shoulders out of the slump they'd fallen into and lifted my chin. Right. Body and mind, connected. One shows confidence, the other adopts it. I'd be damned before I wasted the last minutes of my existence moping.
 

”Whenever you're ready,” crackled the voice over the intercom, sounding more distant now then before.
 

I was taken aback. ”I get to choose when time re-asserts itself?”
 

”It is customary. We understand your emotions, even if We can't relate to them. There is a Limit, though.”
 

”Huh.” Voices over the intercoms and their Big Words. They're seemed to be no point in asking for clarification. Stupid questions about stupid things, however, were another thing all together. ”Any chance you know where the back of the mind is located?”
 

”Wherever you want it to be,” said the voice.
 

”Huh.” Intelligent conversation partner you've got there, voice on the intercom. I should have been a talk show host. I looked longingly at my frozen cup of coffee. ”Alright. Let's spin the wheels.”
 

There was no answer from the voice, but the burly man coughed and pointedly moved to one side while eyeing me with reproach. I acknowledged it with a nod of my head and a faintly chagrined expression.
 

Two minutes.
 

Family, girl friends, sex. You can pick and choose over and over again in your mind; it's different when it's shoved into your face and you're expected to deal with it. I checked my watch. Ten seconds gone. A minute and fifty left. The second hand was steadily sliding along its circuit.
 

”What's the time?” I looked up to see the man regarding me.
 

I unstrapped the watch and threw it over to him in answer.
 

”Keep it,” I said, ”and remember to mind the seconds. Apparently they're worth something, after all.”
 

I picked up my coffee and walked over to the leaf, now lying snugly on the ground, being gently teased by the wind. I felt like grasping it, so it would look like I was deriving some greater meaning from the leaf, but it looked so calm and content that I couldn't bring myself to do so.
 

Instead I walked to the bench across the aisle and sat down, swirling the coffee in its container. It felt good to sit down. It felt good to just be. No bus to catch now.
 

Two minutes.
 

I wondered how long I had left. How many seconds did I use up staring at the leaf? How many seconds does it take to take off a watch? I sipped the coffee and welcomed its hot burn, savored the scalding sensation on my tongue. I let it slide down my throat, still mildly hot, and chuckled. I must've looked like a mad man, sitting there. Everyone knows you're supposed to stand or walk or fidget or run. No sane person sits. So much to do, so little time.
 

Time.
 

Timeless habit caused me to pull back my cuff to view the watch that wasn't there. Takes a special breed of idiot to fall for that. The world's a cooking pot, and we're all ultimately the same. Heh, that almost makes sense. Shaking my head, I threw back more of the uncomfortably hot liquid, which, now that I thought of it, didn't even taste that good at all. I set it down beside me and watched the people rushing by.
 

It was close enough to departure time for most of the world to begin arriving at the station, hurrying and cussing and pushing. There were conflicting ideas of who got to go first, who had the right to sigh impatiently and who didn't. There were so many personalities jumbled up in one place, it was unreal, really. So many faces, all of them unknown, all of them at arm's length, close as a lover. It's a weird thought, when you find the time to think about it.
 

I wondered if I really should call someone. Let them know that I cared. I probably should. I didn't. What is one even supposed to say? Yeah, um, I care for you, just wanted you to know. Bye. I'd be freaked the heck out if someone said that to me. What's there to say, really? Actions speak louder than words, and I'd done plenty of those. I think. If that weren't enough, a couple of words would get me no closer. Life's too short to be spent worrying.
 

I grinned at the thought, imagined a place that could be the back of my mind, and shoved it all into there. I sat there, my mind floating along at its own pace, and observed the people hurrying past me. You should give it a spin it some time – it gives a strange insight into life. Just stop and stare at the world. If you're lucky, it'll stare back at you, and you can have a staring contest. Winner takes all.
 

Maybe there'd be a newspaper article about me. Random Sod Found Dead on Bench at The Station – Cause Unknown. It would make a fine hook. Someone might even read it at coffee break. Then again, maybe there wouldn't be one.
 

Only time will tell, they say. Only time will tell.
 

I've found they say a lot of things.


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A/N: I feel as if this story is lacking... something. At the moment it feels a bit lack-luster, and any points made would be extreemely helpful. Maybe something to do with a lack of finer details, or some such? I can't really place a finger on it.

Anyways, anywho, hope it was a nice read and thanks for taking the time to check it out. Cheers.