The Timekeeper

He doesn’t know it yet but on January 4th, at 79 years of age, Ifeanyi will be laid to eternal rest at his wife’s side. On March 4th at 29 years, he and his wife will have their first child on February 4th, when he is 26, they will be married. Today, December 4th at 24, he will meet his wife.

These events will be set in motion in five minutes time. He will meet Jane at this bar, where he had come to drown some unbearable sorrow, after accidentally emptying what would have been his sixth bottle of beer on her new dress. I know all these because I am here to make it happen—to make sure he trips.

Such is the role of a Timekeeper: one eternally chained to time from time to ensure events in peoples’ lives happen on schedule. My assignments aren’t usually so difficult and I usually don’t need to tell the tales, but this time my jealousy has made it otherwise. I am here to connect two lives while I remain estranged from any such connection—such irony. I’ll be here for these next few minutes, to oversee this event and then off I go, to another time, another person, another situation. I have been doing it for as long as I can remember, and I can only admit it now, I wish someone would be that for me too.

For now, though I find a half-moment’s solace in a bar, wrapped around a bottle of beer without caring which brand. The unpleasant smell of beer hangs a little too thick in the air, but the stuffiness inside is much preferred to the December chill outside. I resent the occasional mindless chatters of strangers which interrupts the otherwise relaxed atmosphere. Even in this room full of people, I couldn’t feel more alone; being here to make sure two lovers meet while I continue to wallow in this wretched loneliness.

She’s here—my eyes alone dart around the room, he doesn’t notice her—no one does. It would take the accident I’m here to arrange to break the ice. I already know their story—they’ll be happy together until their dying days. If only they knew what was about to transpire; that they are about to meet that person they had been looking for their whole lives. I count down the seconds until significant events happen while everyone else live in perpetual ignorance. Ironic then, my name is conspicuously absent from my schedule book—the maker’s cruel joke.

Jane is right on time; one of her most appealing qualities. She’s not nearly as pretty as I had imagined; a little chubby around the middle, wearing slightly too much make up. She’s slouching a bit as if she isn’t very confident; according to my briefing, she hasn’t dated anyone in a while, so that probably has something to do with it. He will find her charming enough though.

This thoughts and emotions are so loud in my head, I can almost swear anybody within ten feet of my mind must be able to hear. She has to be able to feel my eyes on her, the only empty table is right next to me—all part of the plan.

She looks different sitting closer; she has sad weary eyes. I know that look well: of one who had been alone too long, and has resigned herself to such a fate. I might as well trade places with her—I sure wish I could. If only I could lean forward and tell her that this will all change in about two minutes. How I would love for someone to lean forward and whisper how long it might be for me. How cruel it is, with all the details I know about everyone, that I am resigned to watching them fumble through life while having all their answers, and none for myself. Crueler still; arranging happiness while my own happiness remains a foreign concept.

Making me set this couple up is like making a starving child serve a dinner he would not partake in—it just isn’t fair. Why should I set up love when I have yet to find it? I wonder, what if I didn’t trip him. They already know loneliness, and I can testify that it doesn’t kill a person. We all learn to live with our circumstances, right? It is my choice after all, to carry out my orders or not. What punishment I’d get for not enforcing the schedule cannot overpower the anguish of following through.

Ifeanyi must have heard me because there he is walking away from the counter towards me, with his sixth bottle for the day, as if in protest. “If only you knew the power I have over you, this next minute of your life will determine the rest. You were strangers yesterday, are strangers today; and without me, would be still strangers tomorrow. You could go on with your day as you otherwise would and never know the difference. Maybe if she doesn’t notice you or you her. Oh, but she has already. I recognize that look, that initial spark in her eyes. Don’t look her way and this will all be just another unreturned smile.”

He met her glance—connection, he is walking this way. Oh, brutal responsibility! I am here to keep the schedule. I am here scorched by frigid loneliness. He approaches closer—conflicted. My foot extends almost on its own. He trips, my job is done; the rest is for the maker to perform. The bottle goes flying. Apologies and handkerchief scramble. There’s beer all over her dress. What a mess, but such is love.

Well, I came through for them after all. I’ll get up now, to quietly disappear, off to the next assignment, knowing so much yet so little never gets any easier. These doubts and insecurities never fully go away. I know I’ll kick and scream sometimes but eventually as always, I’ll remember to trust that someone knows my schedule, and I don’t need to worry.

“You have five empty bottles on your table already, what are you trying to drown.” I had to linger a while just to hear her say those words.

The creator writes what's best—I am only the timekeeper.