11:59 in Dearborn

Fiction | Magical Realism Short Story #1 | Castles in the Sky #3

This is one of a series of short stories inspired by the Twitter Account Magic Realism Bot. This story is inspired by this Tweet. 

They shouted "two!" and then ten thousand breaths caught in ten thousand throats. The silence smothered the throng of revelers in Times Square. One by one, they began to exhale. "One?" a little girl asked her mother. The number 2 was frozen on a four story screen behind the ball. The giant ball was suspended in air. People at home checked the connection on their TV's. People in Times Square began to check their phones and watches--all stopped at 11:59:59. Once they opened their phones, they realized all the apps that updated in real time were frozen. A few had video calls still going. Small faces asked, "What's going on there?" Nobody had an answer.

It had been 11:59:59 for 13 hours in Tokyo, but nobody knew that, since all the clocks were stopped. The bars were full and the Shinto shrines were mobbed. One timezone over, a cadre of Chinese billionaires and their attaches had boarded a plane that would eventually crash over Pennsylvania, failing to outrun the time-zones and beat the stopping clocks. 

A music teacher in Dearborn, Michigan had got up from his sleep to get some antacids. He didn't know time had stopped. He lay back down for what seemed ten or fifteen minutes, but could not fall asleep. His digital alarm clock read 11:59. "That can't be right." He read three chapters of some book and when he looked up the clock said 11:59. He got up to adjust the clock, but when he manually forwarded the time, it wouldn't move from 11:59. "Weird." He went out to his study and turned on his metronome, set it to 60 beats per minute, and let it count to 180. When he came back to his bedroom, the clock still said 11:59. He went to wake up his wife, but she would not rouse. He grew increasingly agitated until he was screaming in her face and dousing her with water. Still, nothing happened.

He went to open his phone but it said 11:59 also and would not dial out. He ran outside to the neighbor's house. Nobody came to the door, but he knocked so hard that  it swung open. His octogenarian neighbor was asleep in front of a live feed from Times Square, showing a massive 2 on a building-sized screen behind a giant ball suspended in the air. A mixture of prayer circles and riots rocked Times Square. He tried to wake the neighbor. Again, nothing happened. The music teacher dialed 911 on the neighbor's antiquated landline. Nobody picked up for what felt like an eternity, and when a voice finally did answer, it sounded like someone praying a Hail Mary in another room.

The music teacher ran back to his house and got in his car, but it wouldn't turn over. He hopped on a bicycle in his pajamas and furiously pedaled to the nearest hospital. He was one of many disheveled people trickling in. A group of people were praying in a circle. Several doctors smoked cigarettes in front of the building. "What's happening?" The music teacher asked. Nobody responded. He grabbed one doctor by the lapels, "What the hell is going on?"

"The clocks stopped. Nobody's waking up. People stopped dying." The doctor said.

"The people who won't wake up, are they OK?" The music teacher asked.

"They're great. Just fine." The doctor answered. "They just won't wake up." The doctor took a drag and turned back to his coworkers, who appeared to be throwing dice into a shoebox.

"Stopped dying?" The music teacher exhaled in relief, then cocked his head, curious. He walked into the hospital. In the lobby, many people were praying; many were sleeping. The TV was on. "2" in Times Square, with just fires and cars now. Nothing made sense. He went room to room, unhindered by medical personnel or security, just observing. In one room, a very pale man was sitting up in his bed, telling jokes to a room full of gathered loved ones. In another room, the music teacher walked in on what he was sure was someone rifling through a patient's sleeping loved ones' pockets.

Outside a room on the next floor, the music teacher heard a woman wail in agony. "This is the worst pain of my li-ife." Standing in the door, he saw her scream with wild eyes. Her husband and mother comforted her, as she tried to push out the stubborn child inside her. A thin woman stood outside the door, weeping with her head down. "I didn't mean to," the thin woman said under her breath." She and the music teacher locked eyes and the music teacher furrowed his brow. The thin woman waved him on as if to follow her, and he obliged.

They walked down the hall to a room with a chair propped in front of the door. The thin woman moved it out of the way and another woman lie intubated and asleep on the bed inside. The music teacher could tell the patient in bed was striking, even pale and hooked up to all the machines. All around the bed were flowers, pictures, and mementos sent to her. Biggest among them was a framed picture of the patient and the thin woman, holding hands in white dresses under an arch of flowers.

"She was my life," the thin woman said, collapsing onto the side of the bed. "She made the best of me better. I loved her and never deserved her. I should have spent more time with her." The thin woman stood up, "I just wanted more time."

"Do you know something about what's happening?" the music teacher asked.

There was a long pause while the thin woman kissed the hand of the patient. Finally, she looked up and nodded so slightly that the music teacher would not have seen it had he not been looking her in the eyes. Through those eyes he saw the underground river of pain that was coursing through her body. She stood up and put a coat on. "Follow me."

The woman left the room and the music teacher followed. Down the hall, out the hospital, down the street, they kept walking. The walk seemed endless, but neither grew tired. Normally, the music teacher would speak to pass the time, but time no longer existed, so he said nothing. Finally, they arrived at a post office. Everything was locked up. The woman went to a bench that was loosely connected to the front sidewalk.

"Help me," she said, grabbing one end. The two of them sweat and wrenched their bodies until, after a dozen attempts, it came out of the sidewalk. "Now grab it like this," she said. The music teacher did as she said. "Now, run," she nodded toward the glass door of the post office. Together they ran as hard as they could at the door, and after a dozen attempts, the glass shattered into beads. They did the same with the second door, then put the bench down. The woman walked inside and went straight to a wall of safety deposit boxes.

She took a cardboard box out and motioned the music teacher to follow her outside. She sat on the ground and opened the box. The inside looked like a pool of oil, but she grabbed it in her hand and gave it to the man. Not knowing what to expect, he reached out. When he caught it, it moved in his hands like watery dough, but felt softer than any velvet he'd ever felt. A chill went from the top of his head to his back, and he had to stop himself from purring. "What is this?" He asked, resisting the urge to rub his face in it.

"Midnight." She said. "Do you know any songs by heart?"

"I'm a music teacher," he said.

"Great. Pick any song. Sing it to yourself fifty times. Then throw this straight into the air as hard as you can."

He looked at her, then down at Midnight.

"Thank you," she said. And turned to walk back to the hospital.

"One song, fifty times?" He scoffed to himself. He sang his favorites: James Taylor, Carole King, Joan Armitrading, Leonard Cohen, Fleetwood Mac. He used Midnight as a pillow.

After singing Fire and Rain the fourth or fifth time, he stood up. He looked up and grabbed Midnight, giving it a light toss. It went up about five feet but came back down and hit him in the face, feeling astonishingly solid. He sneezed and spit, sure his lip was bleeding. "What the hell?"

He crouched, spun around, and heaved Midnight up as high as he could. He watched it going up, but could not tell if it was getting bigger or smaller, then he stared so long he lost track of it, subsumed into the dark night.

From his pocket his phone vibrated. It was his wife. "Hello?" He asked.

"Hey--where the hell are you? Why am I all wet? The front door and garage were both open."

"Happy New Year," he said. "I'll be home uh . . . I'm not sure when . . . actually can you pick me up? I'll share my location."

"OK, I’m coming, but I was scared. I want you to explain what’s going on."

"I don’t think I can, but I will try."

"OK--I will hurry."

"It's OK," he said. "We have time."