A Minute of Your Time
A Minute of Your Time by Timothy Dewey
copyright 1998
If time were money, Alan Carter would be a millionaire. He had all of the time in the world.
A gentle breeze carried the warm morning air into the window of the Piccolo Cafe where Alan sipped his morning coffee. It was a small cafe, in the European tradition, with a tiled floor and tastefully placed art and conversation. He knew everyone there. The way you know a certain grocery store clerk, or the crossing guard at the school intersection, and they knew him. It was the only place he had ever been a fixture in, and it was as comfortable as an old night shirt. He spent most of his time molded to the window seat, with the newspaper angled to allow him to read while watching the people walk in and out.
It had been six months since Alan had lost his job. They had phased him out, his position no longer cost effective. It had done wonders for his lack of self esteem, growing like some devilish fern in the back of his mind... choking off any seeds of hope with it's presence.
Up until this very day Alan lived off of his savings, always waiting for a call from the office with an alternative job offer. They had told him in a junk mail sort of way that they would keep an eye out for another position that would make good use of his skills. The call would never be made. The seed of hope would only grow dusty on the low priority shelf of some clerk's mind, deep within the bowels of the company.
Today was the day it would happen. He didn't know what to expect, it just felt different today. The feeling was anticipation, and it stood out from the normal, cloned day that he was used to having. He stood and paid for his coffee and walked out of the Piccolo and up the street to check the phone booths for money as he had done every day at this time for the past six months.
As he stuck his finger in the change slot the phone rang... and rang... and rang. "Hello... " Alan said sheepishly as he fingered the thin dime from the change well. He gave a fleeting thought to the timing, expecting an operator to demand he put the dime into the coin slot so the phone could digest it.
A frail, wisp of a voice talked into the phone. It was the voice of someone near the end of their life. The words were separated by labored breathing and faint cries of pain smothering the dimming light of life as the person slid closer and closer to death. "Please... please help me... "
Alan pulled the phone in close to keep the street noise from drowning out the fragile voice on the line. "Are you alright? It sounds like your hurt." Alan asked.
The voice whined in agony as Alan helplessly listened "I... I've been stabbed." Another sharp draw of breath.
Alan grabbed the phone with both hands, figuring he had better keep this person alert and on the line so he could find where to send help.
"HEY... Don't you stop talking to me." He told the voice, "Where are you? I'll send some help."
The bleeding entity on the other end of the line was silent. Then with a build up of labored breathing, "I... I don't know... an apartment house."
The sound of sirens blazed past behind Alan as the local fire department rocketed down the avenue on their way to some far off emergency. Alan shielded the phone from the ear splitting noise to protect the person on the other end of the line from any more discomfort.
"Now look, I want to help you, but you have to tell me where
you are. Is there a window?"
The voice on the other end of the phone whimpered in pain as it searched it's surroundings for a view to the outside. "Yesss... ehhh... window. Palm tree..."
Alan moved as much of his body into the semi‑phone booth as possible to eliminate any distraction. "A palm tree, what else do you see? As he talked he could hear the sirens from the fire engines on the other end of the line as they raced past on their way to their destination. Alan pulled away from the phone for a moment and listened. He could still hear the sirens from his location. From what he could tell, they were going west toward the foothills.
He thrust the receiver back into his ear, the sense of urgency welling up in him with new found force. "I need something else. Can you tell me something about the house?"
He waited for a response. He heard nothing, not even breathing.
"HEY, DON'T YOU DIE ON ME!" Alan screamed into the receiver. People passing by looked at him as though he were a lunatic, having no clue that he was trying with total desperation to save a life. He struggled to hear even the slight movement of clothing, a shallow breath, and then .... "roses." It was as though the word had been said from miles away, a disembodied voice readying itself for a spiritual journey.
Alan listened for more until he figured he was out of time. He let the phone dangle and raced to the corner. He didn't know what to do... where to go... PALM TREE! His view was hopelessly
blocked by the two story buildings on the avenue. He ran around the corner, remembering something he had seen every day for the past six months.
The fire escape clung to the side of the building, the extendable portion placed deliberately out of reach. "DAMN IT!" Alan screamed in total frustration and overwhelming helplessness. Each step he took seemed to present another obstacle. Each second life vanished in heartbeats.
Alan was never a physical type of guy. The forty or so extra pounds he carried above his belt had been with him like an unwelcome house guest. Came to visit but never left. Always making him uncomfortable. Today, it would be as though he lived alone. He made a run from the corner and leapt with an "Air Jordan" accuracy as caught the bottom rung of the extendable stair. It quickly yielded under his weight, each rung available to him he grabbed, climbing it while it made its full extension.
At the top of the stair he scrambled onto the fire escape, panning the horizon for the palm tree. The immediate landscape presented itself in a blend of greens and browns fading away into the pale blue brown sky. Panic pulsed through him. There was no way he would find a palm tree in all of this.
The sirens... yes. They came from the foothills. He looked in the general direction, squinting, trying to divert all of his physical strength to his vision. In a small clutch of beige apartment buildings he could make out a palm frond, no two, poking up from the urban sprawl before him. He made a mental note of the vector and bailed down the fire escape.
On the street once more he turned the corner and returned to the phone to hopefully get confirmation on the location. The phone was now in it's cradle, most likely replaced by someone
passing by, annoyed at the inconvenience of it all. Alan looked at the phone. It was as though now that it had been hung up, that person's fate was sealed.
"NO! DAMN IT!" He wailed. The sound of his voice echoed down the mall of buildings, drawing disparaging glances from a buzz of people who stopped to look. For them, time ticked by with basic meaning, marking segments of their day for meetings and appointments. For Alan, time meant death, right here, right now.
He ran over to them, "Somebody help me, that phone... a call, someone's been stabbed." As soon as he approached, they scattered like pigeons in the park.
Alan ran. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him. No one would be of help to him. He had wasted to much time already. If that person was going to have a chance, it would be with him and him alone. His sense of direction was good, and he aimed toward the only clue he had. He focused on his direction, tunneling his vision, his mind, to the task at hand. To each side of him, the surroundings blurred by in a brush stroke of vivid color and sound. He could feel his heartbeat, his breathing, all seemingly willing to let him make this one mile run without effort.
Within minutes the apartment complex came into view. The three buildings surrounded the palm tree in the courtyard like covered wagons around a camp fire. Once he stopped running, the adrenaline tapered off, leaving him in unending pursuit of his breath. He scanned what looked to be hundreds of balconies, all of them the same.
If time were money, Alan would be in dire straits... he had none to spare. This person had only seconds left if they didn't get help. They could see the palm tree, he reasoned, so the room was obviously facing the courtyard. He ran from one side of the landscaped lawn to the other, and then he saw them. Roses, in the window of a second floor apartment, six from the end. The adrenaline was back, with re‑enforcement.
Alan ran to the door of the building and pulled it, locked. A panel of names and door buzzers presented itself to him to the left of the entrance. He wildly pressed all of the buttons in turn, like a virtuoso. A buzz of electronic conversation answered originating from a dozen apartments.
Alan thought quickly, "Uh... pizza delivery." The electronic door latch hummed in the door jam and the door was open. In an instant he was on the second floor, taking the steps three at a time. He ran down the hallway, counting doorways. When he reached the sixth one he pounded on the door.
In his mind, the person lying inside this door wasn't going to answer, so he tried to open it. The door was locked only for an instant, then it slammed open. Shrapnel from the door jam blew into the living area of the apartment. The momentum of the force he used to break through the door carried him into the middle of the apartment. He stood there, stunned. Alan was the visage of a mad man. A sweating, bug eyed, heavy breathing mad man who had
just broken into.... the wrong apartment.
In the bedroom doorway a rather thin, nude man stood in all of his glory, his wife, or lover... or both stood next to him with a bed sheet hastily covering her. The tremendous racket and
the ensuing intrusion had caught them mid stroke.
"What the hell is this?" The little man screamed. Alan shook off the confusion and thought an explanation would be totally futile. He ran to the window and looked at the roses, then out at the adjacent building. Of course! They could see the roses. He looked at the apartments across the way and saw only two that had a good view of the vase of roses in this window. One of the other apartments had an array of plant life growing from hanging pots that would certainly have come to mind before the roses. The other was free and clear, with the curtains open only slightly. Second floor, five from the end.
Alan turned and commanded the wisp of a man standing in the doorway to call 911, that there is person that needs an ambulance. The little man hesitated, as if he were going to say something in defiance.
Alan stepped toward him, "DO IT, DO IT NOW!"
He ran out and down to the first floor. Just when thought his luck might run out, that this whole effort would end up in vain, he saw an old woman walking out of the adjacent building. As she cleared the door, it started its slow return to latching position, only to be snatched open as Alan burst through.
Upstairs, he bounded down the second floor hallway with such force that several people ran out and after him, thinking it was a fire or an earthquake that he was trying to escape. When he reached the fifth door, he angled in and broke through like a lineman heading in to sack a quarterback. The others in the hallway just watched, realizing now that they weren't in danger, or at least the type of danger that put them in the hall in the first place. They peeked in through the broken doorway.
Alan knelt down over the pale woman, a blood soaked phone receiver still clutched in her hand. A long, wicked looking knife, that seemed as though it could kill just by being in
sight, lay next to her. Four nasty stab wounds oozed with the faint, but present pulse. He looked towards the door at the people gawking, "Get the paramedics up here as soon as they arrive."
The sirens made their approach, the little man had called as asked. Alan looked down at the woman. She was in her forties, and extremely well dressed, especially for this working class neighborhood. He bent down and whispered in her ear, "It's gonna be alright, you'll see. You did the right thing, you hung on."
The sirens stopped and frantic screaming could be heard from the courtyard. Two paramedics clambered in, carrying two or three cases of equipment. Two more followed with a portable gurney.
He stood back and watched them work on her. They spoke into a cellular phone to the emergency doctor back at the hospital, letting him know that she was coming and that her vital signs were weak. Once they had her on the gurney, she was gone. One paramedic patted Alan's shoulder. "Looks like you got here just in time."
Two days later Alan sat in his chair by the window at Piccolo. He sipped his morning brew and watched with anticipation. Nearly everyone partook in the morning paper, and today was no exception. It started with glances, and guarded conversation, then eventually all eyes were on Alan. Someone slowly began to applaud and the cafe erupted with cheers and clapping as they acknowledged the celebrity among them.
Alan was indeed a celebrity. The woman he had saved was left for dead by her son, who planned to make it look like she was murdered so he could collect his inheritance. When Alan had found her, she only had seconds left to live. A moments hesitation on his part, and she would have expired, leaving her son with a fortune in high technology stock and real estate. She had a lot of money. Money that corroded and mutated the relationship with her son until he became so obsessed with its control that he would kill his own mother to get it.
She was recovering in the finest hospital in the area. It
was fate that she misdialed the phone, that Alan Carter was there to answer the call. She had tried to dial 911, but had pressed a redial button by mistake. Her son turned himself in once he found out his plan had failed. He was awaiting arraignment on attempted murder, and a myriad of other crimes that, when convicted, would keep him behind bars for the better part of his lifetime.
Alan was happy with just the attention he was getting, and he honestly expected nothing in return. So you can imagine the surprise on his face when he opened the registered letter that was delivered with a dozen red roses, right to the window, his window, at the Piccolo Cafe.
The letter read as follows: "To a true hero, who took the time to help, who took the time to care. Thank you Mr. Alan Carter, I will never forget you. Please take this with my deepest respect and gratitude. Sincerely yours, Pamela Simms."
A cashiers check for $1,000,000 slipped out of the envelope and onto the floor of the cafe. He picked it up and looked at it, a broad smile diverting the tears that ran down his face.
If time were money, Alan Carter would be a millionaire. Time... you can buy it, you can give it, you can spend it and invest it. It was a valuable asset to Alan and a lifesaver when shared with Pamela Simms. Time is what you make of it.
copyright 1998
If time were money, Alan Carter would be a millionaire. He had all of the time in the world.
A gentle breeze carried the warm morning air into the window of the Piccolo Cafe where Alan sipped his morning coffee. It was a small cafe, in the European tradition, with a tiled floor and tastefully placed art and conversation. He knew everyone there. The way you know a certain grocery store clerk, or the crossing guard at the school intersection, and they knew him. It was the only place he had ever been a fixture in, and it was as comfortable as an old night shirt. He spent most of his time molded to the window seat, with the newspaper angled to allow him to read while watching the people walk in and out.
It had been six months since Alan had lost his job. They had phased him out, his position no longer cost effective. It had done wonders for his lack of self esteem, growing like some devilish fern in the back of his mind... choking off any seeds of hope with it's presence.
Up until this very day Alan lived off of his savings, always waiting for a call from the office with an alternative job offer. They had told him in a junk mail sort of way that they would keep an eye out for another position that would make good use of his skills. The call would never be made. The seed of hope would only grow dusty on the low priority shelf of some clerk's mind, deep within the bowels of the company.
Today was the day it would happen. He didn't know what to expect, it just felt different today. The feeling was anticipation, and it stood out from the normal, cloned day that he was used to having. He stood and paid for his coffee and walked out of the Piccolo and up the street to check the phone booths for money as he had done every day at this time for the past six months.
As he stuck his finger in the change slot the phone rang... and rang... and rang. "Hello... " Alan said sheepishly as he fingered the thin dime from the change well. He gave a fleeting thought to the timing, expecting an operator to demand he put the dime into the coin slot so the phone could digest it.
A frail, wisp of a voice talked into the phone. It was the voice of someone near the end of their life. The words were separated by labored breathing and faint cries of pain smothering the dimming light of life as the person slid closer and closer to death. "Please... please help me... "
Alan pulled the phone in close to keep the street noise from drowning out the fragile voice on the line. "Are you alright? It sounds like your hurt." Alan asked.
The voice whined in agony as Alan helplessly listened "I... I've been stabbed." Another sharp draw of breath.
Alan grabbed the phone with both hands, figuring he had better keep this person alert and on the line so he could find where to send help.
"HEY... Don't you stop talking to me." He told the voice, "Where are you? I'll send some help."
The bleeding entity on the other end of the line was silent. Then with a build up of labored breathing, "I... I don't know... an apartment house."
The sound of sirens blazed past behind Alan as the local fire department rocketed down the avenue on their way to some far off emergency. Alan shielded the phone from the ear splitting noise to protect the person on the other end of the line from any more discomfort.
"Now look, I want to help you, but you have to tell me where
you are. Is there a window?"
The voice on the other end of the phone whimpered in pain as it searched it's surroundings for a view to the outside. "Yesss... ehhh... window. Palm tree..."
Alan moved as much of his body into the semi‑phone booth as possible to eliminate any distraction. "A palm tree, what else do you see? As he talked he could hear the sirens from the fire engines on the other end of the line as they raced past on their way to their destination. Alan pulled away from the phone for a moment and listened. He could still hear the sirens from his location. From what he could tell, they were going west toward the foothills.
He thrust the receiver back into his ear, the sense of urgency welling up in him with new found force. "I need something else. Can you tell me something about the house?"
He waited for a response. He heard nothing, not even breathing.
"HEY, DON'T YOU DIE ON ME!" Alan screamed into the receiver. People passing by looked at him as though he were a lunatic, having no clue that he was trying with total desperation to save a life. He struggled to hear even the slight movement of clothing, a shallow breath, and then .... "roses." It was as though the word had been said from miles away, a disembodied voice readying itself for a spiritual journey.
Alan listened for more until he figured he was out of time. He let the phone dangle and raced to the corner. He didn't know what to do... where to go... PALM TREE! His view was hopelessly
blocked by the two story buildings on the avenue. He ran around the corner, remembering something he had seen every day for the past six months.
The fire escape clung to the side of the building, the extendable portion placed deliberately out of reach. "DAMN IT!" Alan screamed in total frustration and overwhelming helplessness. Each step he took seemed to present another obstacle. Each second life vanished in heartbeats.
Alan was never a physical type of guy. The forty or so extra pounds he carried above his belt had been with him like an unwelcome house guest. Came to visit but never left. Always making him uncomfortable. Today, it would be as though he lived alone. He made a run from the corner and leapt with an "Air Jordan" accuracy as caught the bottom rung of the extendable stair. It quickly yielded under his weight, each rung available to him he grabbed, climbing it while it made its full extension.
At the top of the stair he scrambled onto the fire escape, panning the horizon for the palm tree. The immediate landscape presented itself in a blend of greens and browns fading away into the pale blue brown sky. Panic pulsed through him. There was no way he would find a palm tree in all of this.
The sirens... yes. They came from the foothills. He looked in the general direction, squinting, trying to divert all of his physical strength to his vision. In a small clutch of beige apartment buildings he could make out a palm frond, no two, poking up from the urban sprawl before him. He made a mental note of the vector and bailed down the fire escape.
On the street once more he turned the corner and returned to the phone to hopefully get confirmation on the location. The phone was now in it's cradle, most likely replaced by someone
passing by, annoyed at the inconvenience of it all. Alan looked at the phone. It was as though now that it had been hung up, that person's fate was sealed.
"NO! DAMN IT!" He wailed. The sound of his voice echoed down the mall of buildings, drawing disparaging glances from a buzz of people who stopped to look. For them, time ticked by with basic meaning, marking segments of their day for meetings and appointments. For Alan, time meant death, right here, right now.
He ran over to them, "Somebody help me, that phone... a call, someone's been stabbed." As soon as he approached, they scattered like pigeons in the park.
Alan ran. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him. No one would be of help to him. He had wasted to much time already. If that person was going to have a chance, it would be with him and him alone. His sense of direction was good, and he aimed toward the only clue he had. He focused on his direction, tunneling his vision, his mind, to the task at hand. To each side of him, the surroundings blurred by in a brush stroke of vivid color and sound. He could feel his heartbeat, his breathing, all seemingly willing to let him make this one mile run without effort.
Within minutes the apartment complex came into view. The three buildings surrounded the palm tree in the courtyard like covered wagons around a camp fire. Once he stopped running, the adrenaline tapered off, leaving him in unending pursuit of his breath. He scanned what looked to be hundreds of balconies, all of them the same.
If time were money, Alan would be in dire straits... he had none to spare. This person had only seconds left if they didn't get help. They could see the palm tree, he reasoned, so the room was obviously facing the courtyard. He ran from one side of the landscaped lawn to the other, and then he saw them. Roses, in the window of a second floor apartment, six from the end. The adrenaline was back, with re‑enforcement.
Alan ran to the door of the building and pulled it, locked. A panel of names and door buzzers presented itself to him to the left of the entrance. He wildly pressed all of the buttons in turn, like a virtuoso. A buzz of electronic conversation answered originating from a dozen apartments.
Alan thought quickly, "Uh... pizza delivery." The electronic door latch hummed in the door jam and the door was open. In an instant he was on the second floor, taking the steps three at a time. He ran down the hallway, counting doorways. When he reached the sixth one he pounded on the door.
In his mind, the person lying inside this door wasn't going to answer, so he tried to open it. The door was locked only for an instant, then it slammed open. Shrapnel from the door jam blew into the living area of the apartment. The momentum of the force he used to break through the door carried him into the middle of the apartment. He stood there, stunned. Alan was the visage of a mad man. A sweating, bug eyed, heavy breathing mad man who had
just broken into.... the wrong apartment.
In the bedroom doorway a rather thin, nude man stood in all of his glory, his wife, or lover... or both stood next to him with a bed sheet hastily covering her. The tremendous racket and
the ensuing intrusion had caught them mid stroke.
"What the hell is this?" The little man screamed. Alan shook off the confusion and thought an explanation would be totally futile. He ran to the window and looked at the roses, then out at the adjacent building. Of course! They could see the roses. He looked at the apartments across the way and saw only two that had a good view of the vase of roses in this window. One of the other apartments had an array of plant life growing from hanging pots that would certainly have come to mind before the roses. The other was free and clear, with the curtains open only slightly. Second floor, five from the end.
Alan turned and commanded the wisp of a man standing in the doorway to call 911, that there is person that needs an ambulance. The little man hesitated, as if he were going to say something in defiance.
Alan stepped toward him, "DO IT, DO IT NOW!"
He ran out and down to the first floor. Just when thought his luck might run out, that this whole effort would end up in vain, he saw an old woman walking out of the adjacent building. As she cleared the door, it started its slow return to latching position, only to be snatched open as Alan burst through.
Upstairs, he bounded down the second floor hallway with such force that several people ran out and after him, thinking it was a fire or an earthquake that he was trying to escape. When he reached the fifth door, he angled in and broke through like a lineman heading in to sack a quarterback. The others in the hallway just watched, realizing now that they weren't in danger, or at least the type of danger that put them in the hall in the first place. They peeked in through the broken doorway.
Alan knelt down over the pale woman, a blood soaked phone receiver still clutched in her hand. A long, wicked looking knife, that seemed as though it could kill just by being in
sight, lay next to her. Four nasty stab wounds oozed with the faint, but present pulse. He looked towards the door at the people gawking, "Get the paramedics up here as soon as they arrive."
The sirens made their approach, the little man had called as asked. Alan looked down at the woman. She was in her forties, and extremely well dressed, especially for this working class neighborhood. He bent down and whispered in her ear, "It's gonna be alright, you'll see. You did the right thing, you hung on."
The sirens stopped and frantic screaming could be heard from the courtyard. Two paramedics clambered in, carrying two or three cases of equipment. Two more followed with a portable gurney.
He stood back and watched them work on her. They spoke into a cellular phone to the emergency doctor back at the hospital, letting him know that she was coming and that her vital signs were weak. Once they had her on the gurney, she was gone. One paramedic patted Alan's shoulder. "Looks like you got here just in time."
Two days later Alan sat in his chair by the window at Piccolo. He sipped his morning brew and watched with anticipation. Nearly everyone partook in the morning paper, and today was no exception. It started with glances, and guarded conversation, then eventually all eyes were on Alan. Someone slowly began to applaud and the cafe erupted with cheers and clapping as they acknowledged the celebrity among them.
Alan was indeed a celebrity. The woman he had saved was left for dead by her son, who planned to make it look like she was murdered so he could collect his inheritance. When Alan had found her, she only had seconds left to live. A moments hesitation on his part, and she would have expired, leaving her son with a fortune in high technology stock and real estate. She had a lot of money. Money that corroded and mutated the relationship with her son until he became so obsessed with its control that he would kill his own mother to get it.
She was recovering in the finest hospital in the area. It
was fate that she misdialed the phone, that Alan Carter was there to answer the call. She had tried to dial 911, but had pressed a redial button by mistake. Her son turned himself in once he found out his plan had failed. He was awaiting arraignment on attempted murder, and a myriad of other crimes that, when convicted, would keep him behind bars for the better part of his lifetime.
Alan was happy with just the attention he was getting, and he honestly expected nothing in return. So you can imagine the surprise on his face when he opened the registered letter that was delivered with a dozen red roses, right to the window, his window, at the Piccolo Cafe.
The letter read as follows: "To a true hero, who took the time to help, who took the time to care. Thank you Mr. Alan Carter, I will never forget you. Please take this with my deepest respect and gratitude. Sincerely yours, Pamela Simms."
A cashiers check for $1,000,000 slipped out of the envelope and onto the floor of the cafe. He picked it up and looked at it, a broad smile diverting the tears that ran down his face.
If time were money, Alan Carter would be a millionaire. Time... you can buy it, you can give it, you can spend it and invest it. It was a valuable asset to Alan and a lifesaver when shared with Pamela Simms. Time is what you make of it.
posted by Jake Allen at 11:51 PM
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