Tyranny Of The Time Clock

The Price of Minutes

aleXander hirka

--

“Tyranny Of The Time Clock” (13 August 2020) — digital collage by AleXander Hirka

She blamed it on a Higher Power. This included everything from The Vast Universe to all the various flavors of gods in the Spiritual Smorgasbord. When her astrologically-minded friend provided the calendar dates she knew it was Mercury Retrograde at play. Her conspiracy-theory-minded friend reminded her that the Illuminati and New World Order are behind everything.
It was obviously out of her control, that much she knew.
Since the punch-in process went digital last year she had added the possibility that Russians were meddling with the computer data.
And boy did she have to keep her annoyance to herself when the response to the panoply of background machinations that she presented to her employers were smugly played down as excuses.

It began with the alarm clock—which some sprite would quite often turn off during the night. She always left on time, or close enough that she knew she could make it up on the bus, or the walk to or from it.

The buses! Either they were way behind schedule or she’d see them leaving the stop as she approached. Always one driver who is ahead of schedule, waiting an extra minute at every stop, damn it. The traffic was apparently some vast puppeteer’s game—she couldn’t see the strings but sensed the intentional chaos. And just when things were moving along smoothly the Almighty provided three consecutive stops which required special boarding of wheelchaired commuters.

If all went well up to that point there were always the elevators. Did Fate push every button on the elevator that was coming down? And was it Providence that was bringing in workers who would certainly be getting off on floors before hers?

But this is how it is and how it has been.
I could leave the day before, she was heard to say, and Destiny would somehow find a way to keep me from getting here.

If it was seven minutes the clock proclaimed she was on time, but it was always at least eight, so the clock, liking things in quarter-hour increments, called it fifteen. Twenty-two minutes was okay, twenty-three turned into a half hour.
Connected as Time was to her paycheck, she always stayed to make up the minutes at end of day.
In…

--

--

aleXander hirka

Writer, visual artist, philosopher, autodidact, curmudgeon. More than half of what i do is make believe. https://alexanderhirka.nyc