Yearlight Savings Time

When it became clear that the end of the world was coming, and coming soon, the government tried to pull one last trick out of its sleeve: “Yearlight Savings Time.” Although everyone knew it was a way of cheating quantum inevitability, we bought it. What else could we do? The plan worked just like daylight savings time, except, in this case, everyone in the civilized world was ordered to set their calendars back exactly one year. And so we did. We fished outdated appointment books from recycling piles and retrofitted versions of Microsoft Office. All media outlets—web, print, TV—recast everything exactly as it was. The F.B.I, with much more jest and vigor than it usually shows, found missing children and deadbeat husbands and returned them to their families. Wars ended and became “increasing tensions,” while others started that had previously ended. A very unpopular former president became president again.

And—this was the hardest part—everyone had to try as hard as they could to remember exactly what they were doing on exactly the same hour/day/minute one year ago.

Thus, I am sitting in what I thought at the time was the most boring meeting in my life. But now it’s in second place, because I am forcing myself to recall the exact doodle I jotted on my yellow legal pad, the exact same sarcastic comment I am going to make about 39 seconds from now. I am rolling back and forth in small, almost imperceptible motions on my faux-black leather “Herman Miller-like” chair, noting the scratches in the cherry finish on the seminar table in front of me, breathing in the smell of fresh black top from the parking lot below. The lot was sealed last year, but, of course, it had to be sealed again to keep to the script. It’s amazing how much comes back to you if you are forced to remember. Life is now like being on a perpetual witness stand with God pressing you for all the details.

What’s really interesting is that all the people you were sure were gone from your work life forever are now back—hell, whole legions of people who were fired or transferred were “repopulated” in a massive, yet I must admit efficient, feat of public air/land/and sea transportation. Even trains made a comeback, carting repopulated passengers over rusting tracks through towns that hadn’t seen a passenger car in sixty years or more.

Sitting to my left, in fact, is good old Francine, a forty-something lesbian middle manager who left for “personal and family reasons” (yeah, right) last year, when our homophobic boss got word that someone had seen her at a gay rights rally. I remember when she was fired like it was yesterday, and that’s a handy thing, because we are all going to have to relive it exactly ninety-three days from now.

It’s good to see her again. She looks fine for someone who was humiliated and fired—maybe she’s just playing her part very well—but she doesn’t seem sad at all. The corners of her mouth are defying gravity and almost forming a smile, and her auburn hair is in almost the same style as it was last year, though it seems just a tad bouncier.

I hope she breaks the time rules a little and sues the boss’s ass off this go around. There are a few lawyers who refuse to follow the government’s plan, but they are mostly in hiding, and the court system is tied up retrying last year’s cases. I know Francine’s not going to find justice, but, at least so far, there is no law against hope.

“Yeah, like that is really going to work.” That’s my sarcastic comment. Right on time, as far as I can tell. I tap my yellow pad with my Uni-ball, making a little rimshot noise. A few of my co-workers chuckle, though not very convincingly.

* * *

As you can imagine, Yearlight Savings Time brought on its own oppressive sadness. Just as many lost or missing children were united with families, many were also taken away. For instance, I am not allowed to see my newborn son, Samson, because, technically, he does not exist. His conception is still weeks away. Right now I am sitting in my apartment looking at his picture that I have hidden under a corner of loose carpet near the sliding patio doors. (Have you noticed how my story is present tense? Another government mandate. Not past. No future. I don’t really care about the rules as they relate to this story, because by the time I’m finished with it the world will be a sea of fire, but the habit is hard to break.) I run my thumb over the laminated surface of the photo, a surface slightly curved from having spent at least a short time in my wallet. He looks probably like any other baby, but he is my son—the same thin lips, the same dark hair, the same cold stare at the overhead camera, as if he’s giving away something of his life, but grudgingly.

I put the photo back and wander into the kitchen for a beer. I open it, then walk back into the living room and plunk myself down on the couch.

The phone rings. Right on time. It’s Gail from PR—she’s called just to chat. This is the Gail whom I will date in a few days, fall in love with, and have a child with before something goes terribly wrong between us. Then I will watch her leave me for what I thought was forever.

* * *

As far as end-of-the-world predictions go, there have been sixty-three failed and one ambiguous one between 30 CE and 1990. The ambiguous one belongs to St. Clement, who boldly predicted that the world would end at “any moment,” thus satisfying his followers’ craving for Armageddon without having to get real specific about when it would occur. The government’s response to the end-of-timers has been ambiguous as well. As many of them had already been predicting the end of the world for decades, letting them continue this year was no big deal. However, when otherwise reasonable people started giving away their possessions—cars, homes, Krugerrands—to various churches and “prophets,” agents confiscated the stuff and forced people to reclaim it. I guess they saw such selfless acts as veering off last year’s script a bit too much. Thus, in the government’s view, it’s okay to predict the end of the world (and, for once, with some degree of accuracy), but definitely not okay to do anything to save your soul.

* * *

It’s my first date with Gail again. The date goes well, as it did originally. Scallops with white wine at The Purple Harlot, a trendy restaurant on the east side of town. Gail is putting on a great performance, too, showing no signs of self-consciousness, irritation, or boredom. I don’t think we say exactly what we said the first time around, but it’s pretty damn close. She tells me about her family in Alabama, about her father’s exploits as a firefighter for over twenty years, her mother’s quiet service as a secretary in the Soil Conservation Service. Gail was an English major in college who wrote her senior thesis on Jane Austen. She wanted to be a professor, but the drive just wasn’t there, and so, by the usual twists of fate that bring two people together, she ended up in the same building as me. I heard it all last year, but it feels nice to hear it again.

Over a raspberry torte for two, I examine her face, her eyes, for any indication that she might want to allow even a slight opening for me to mention Samson, but it’s not there. When I take her back to her apartment, she kisses me goodnight on the lips, pressing hard, in a way that makes me understand, just like the first time, that this date won’t be the last. Strangely, I am happy for a moment, almost as happy as I was last year, when I went home wondering what a beautiful woman like Gail was doing being interested in someone like me. Amazing how those cliches come creeping back so easily.

At work the next morning, Francine and I are talking about the afterlife. If there is one, really. We arrived at this topic after wondering what the government has done about the dead. If everything is to follow the plan, they must now rise somehow and rejoin their families.

“Maybe they hire look-alike actors. Like celebrity impersonators, only for the dead,” I say. I pretend to look over a memo that details the minutes of a meeting that has yet to happen.

“Celebrity Impersonators of the Dead.” Francine laughs. “Do they eat brains?”

I notice that the computer screen behind her says that the weather is sunny and clear, even though it is sleeting outside. Little ice balls bounce off the window.

“No, really.” Francine’s face takes on a more serious look. “I mean, this is all going to end soon, no matter how hard we try to deny it. Do you think there’s something more?”

I tell her that I used to believe in an afterlife back when I was a boy in Catholic School. When it was my turn to clean the church, I got to use a ladder, a pretty big deal for a ten-year-old, to climb up to dust off Jesus, who hung on a cross over the choir loft. While I was wiping his face with an old rag, I noticed that he wasn’t nailed to the cross, but hung with a wire that ran through an eye hook screwed into the back of his plaster neck. Something about the tackiness of it all hit me then. The artist didn’t even bother using nails.

“To be honest,” I say, “It’s really probably a waste of mental energy to even think about it.”

* * *

My dates with Gail continue. On the critical third one, when we sleep together, Gail still isn’t missing a beat. Under the patina of well-feigned intimacy, our first time together works well, but all the pain, all of the questions from the past, linger no matter how hard we both try. We lie together naked, side-by-side, the fingers of my right hand intertwined with hers. And the best thing about intimacy, even if it’s not completely authentic, is that you don’t have to say anything. I need to relive this moment from a year ago best I can, a moment I thought would never happen again. Don’t destroy it by breaking its fragile shell, I think. Just lie in the sheets and let the moment surround us. A single candle is burning in the corner. Miles Davis is on the radio. Who cares if the world is ending?

* * *

Well, many people do, apparently. Cracks and fissures are beginning to form in the government’s plan. An underground press is developing through low-frequency radio broadcasts and web sites that exist for only 8-10 minutes before disappearing. On one such web site someone posted a short video of a Tiananmen Square-type protest somewhere in Missouri. Groups of college-aged protestors hold handmade signs that read “NO YLST,” while onlookers in the background try to act as normal and as “last year” as possible. The screen then goes black for a few seconds. What we see next is a burning mini-van and several bodies lying about as a tank speeds by. There are reports of mass suicides, some of which would make Jim Jones proud. The president apparently has survived several assassination attempts, one by a group calling itself the “Time Liberation Army,” a title that would be kind of funny if the end of the world weren’t just around the corner.

At work, I’m gossiping with Francine about the usual office stuff—what a jerk the boss is, salary, etc. She was a real confidant the first time around and she’s giving me the same relationship advice again: “If you really care about her, tell her so — no, it’s not unusual for two people to fall in love so fast, just be careful . . . I think it’s wonderful . . . I’m so happy for you and Gail . . . Doesn’t love make everything just that much better?” She then pulls out a small magic memo pad, the kind with which one uses a plastic stylus to write over a clear sheet of film. When you lift the film, of course, your message disappears. I remember my advisor in college telling me how she used one to communicate in bugged rooms when she was a visiting scholar in the former USSR.

Francine quickly scribbles a sentence, the red stylus tiny as a match between her fingers. “I heard the END is maybe a month away. Even less?”

I nod my head. I’ve heard rumors through the internet underground that there’s not much time left.

She scribbles again. “I’m thinking of going back to Texas. I miss Ramona.”

I nod and she quickly lifts the plastic sheet. I take the memo pad from her and write, “They will kill you. You can’t go off script.”

She grabs the memo pad and writes, “SO, WHAT DOES IT MATTER?”

Right then, Ellie from marketing walks by and we quickly resume our conversation on the wonders of romance. Ellie pretends to eavesdrop.

* * *

That night, in bed with Gail, I decide to go off script. Something about the way she looks makes me think that I might have a chance. Gail is still so beautiful—shiny black hair, blue eyes, lips that would make a lover beg. But there is a worn-out quality that seems to consume her whole being. Her skin is almost gray in spots, her forehead wrinkled with lines that aren’t going away. It’s exhausting being who you were.

That’s why I take my opportunity to raise the issue of Samson. Gail seems tired of it all—all the role playing, all the anger under the role playing. Plus, we both know that while things are going swimmingly now, it won’t be long before she has to tell me—again—that she’s pregnant. And it won’t be long after that before I blow it all.

So I take my chance. I turn to her and say, “I heard from Francine that the end is soon. No way we have a year left, no matter how hard we pretend.”

She is silent. She rolls onto her side, quickly, almost aggressively, the way she did in our last days together. It’s not a good sign, but at least I know she has decided to “break the third wall’ in her own way.

“How is Samson?”

“Who is Samson?” She shifts her body even farther away from mine. Though we are sleeping on a double bed, she seems miles away now.

“Listen, in a month, a few days maybe, we won’t even exist. Why keep playing a game? I want to see my son. I want the three of us to be a family. Even if it’s only for an hour.”

Gail sighs heavily, usually the prelude to a fit of crying. But I do not hear any sniffling. Instead, she says in a very composed voice, “I want to sleep now.” I stare at the ceiling. Outside, there are strange new noises, like loud explosions in the distance. But no sirens follow. Usually a train passes by at this hour, but there is no horn blowing, no lonely rhythm of wheels clacking over the rails. The radio alarm clock chirps and then clinks off as we lose power. The whole world is beginning to go off script.

* * *

At work the next morning, everyone takes his or her place, though many of the computer screens are blank, as the building’s emergency generator is capable of keeping just the lights and a few computers on-line. Some of my co-workers are feigning interest in the usual paper pushing, while others just stare at their darkened screens. Francine is in her cubicle, frantically typing away at a keyboard, he fingers pounding like little hammers at the keys, though her screen too is empty. When I approach her, she turns and stares at me. The distance in her eyes is frightening. “I’m never going to make it to Texas,” she says. Then she points her chin to a folded piece of paper next to the keyboard. “It’s from Gail.”

I pick it up and read it, trying to concentrate over the hysterical clicking of computer keys.

“So, what does she say?” Francine doesn’t look at me.

“It’s good news. Gail wants to meet me later today. Today. And she’s bringing our son.”

“You do not realize how lucky you are.” Francine grimaces and lets her head fall on the keyboard. I hold her hand.

* * *

At promptly 5:30 I am inside Vernon’s Cafe, the time and place specified in Gail’s note. The place is crowded with sweaty office workers drinking what is left of the booze, as shipments apparently stopped weeks ago. There is no jollity, though, no banter, just a quiet murmuring among the crowd. Some are talking about a catastrophic event along the West Coast, as whole sections of California have reportedly fallen into the sea. Some mention a toxic cloud the size of Australia moving in from the Atlantic Ocean.

What is truly ominous, though, is that the bar’s one TV is not playing last year’s news. Instead, CNN is reporting that in less than an hour, the president will be making a major statement, and that it will be the new president, not last year’s. The talking head on the screen looks pale, in spite of all her makeup. This is it, I think to myself.

I turn away from the TV to find a seat and there she is. Gail. She stands in front of me, her face calm, her eyes looking at me warmly. She is carrying Samson in a front carrier so that his arms and legs dangled excitedly as my eyes meet his. He is such a beautiful boy. I place my hand on his head, feeling its warmth, its life. One of the people in the bar yells “Look!” He is pointing to the front window. I put my arm around Gail, and we turn to watch the sun sink below the horizon faster than we ever thought possible.