The Hour of the Time Read online

The Hour of the Time

  by Vincent Hobbes

  Copyright 2010 Hobbes End Entertainment, LLC

  The future is as harsh as nature.

  Harsher even.

  Cruel and emotionless.

  The future is a cryptic place, where a synthetic voice is on the other end when you dial customer service, and it never understands your words.

  DOES NOT COMPUTE and PLEASE REPEAT YOUR REQUEST are common words in the future.

  The future is filled with blinking lights and chirping beeps.

  Complex highways and colossal buildings.

  One hundred foot billboards line the roads, and everything around you is a commercial for a product you do not need.

  And somewhere along the line, we lost the human spirit; self-reliance and self-worth disappeared.

  Because the future is a place where government dictates happiness, and society mandates perception.

  Welcome. I hope you enjoy yourself.

  Charlie was running late. He hated being late. It was one of his biggest quirks. It was the highway again—the High 12. It was jammed tight like sheep, and his drive took longer than expected.

  “Shit,” he mumbled. Charlie hated the city.

  He beeped his horn and cursed his way through morning traffic, arriving at 8:47 am.

  Thirteen minutes early.

  Charlie peered at his summons again.

  9:00 am, it read.

  He did not want to be late.

  As the rabbit would say, I’m late, I’m late—for a very important date!

  Charlie hated being late, and right now, he was behind schedule. He was always early. It was a trait of his. Always first at the office, always first at parties—when he was invited, of course. Charlie always arrived thirty minutes early to the movies, and two hours at the airport.

  This day was no different.

  More important, actually.

  The most important day of Charlie’s life.

  The parking lot was full. Charlie spat more obscenities under his breath.

  “It’s because they’re all on time. Everybody but me!” he muttered.

  He cursed again, pounding the steering wheel in frustration.

  It would’ve been comical had someone seen his outburst, but as luck would have it, nobody did.

  Why?

  Charlie was a frail guy—an unintimidating character. He was thirty, yet still got carded for cigarettes. His boyish features might have been bad enough, but his 5’1” frame made it even worse for him. To add insult to injury, his hair was thinning, and the way he kept it brushed back, his pimply forehead awkwardly stood out. Charlie was a mess. He’d never been inside a woman, never ridden a motorcycle. Never shot a gun. His life was six days a week to the office, one day off. Charlie didn’t mind if his boss gave him work to do. He wanted to do his part. Everyone should do his or her part. But what Charlie never understood was that his small features, his nasally voice, his obsessive ways—these things usually made for a good laugh at his expense, and this moment was no different.

  “Shit shit shit!” he exclaimed.

  “It’s fine. It’s fine,” he muttered to himself.

  “I don’t have to impress anyone,” he grumbled. “I’m here, and I’m on time.”

  He pounded the steering wheel one last time.

  “There has to be a damn spot somewhere.”

  Charlie looked at his watch.

  Double-checked it with the car clock.

  8:50 am.

  “Ten minutes. Shit on a stick!”

  Charlie tore around the corner, finally spotting an open space.

  “’Bout fucking time.”

  He slammed the car in park and jumped out, racing to the building.

  Halfway there, he had to turn back. He forgot his summons.”

  “Shit shit shit shit shit,” he said with every step.

  He tried it again, nearly sprinting across the parking lot. Charlie’s little legs churned as fast as they could on the hot asphalt.

  He reached the building and pulled at the door.

  8:52 am.

  Charlie was out of breath when he entered. He hair was tussled, so he combed it back hastily with his fingers. He pulled the door and stepped inside, sighing a breath of relief he had not stopped to use the restroom along the way.

  “Without a moment to spare,” he mumbled.

  This was an important day for Charlie. He had received his summons two weeks earlier in the mail. He had made sure to call the confirmation number, doing so twice just to make sure. The last thing he wanted was to miss his appointment. This appointment.

  There were severe penalties for missing a summons, and for being late.

  But he was finally here. He trotted to the front desk. Luck was on his side, and no one else was in line. Charlie hurried to the nearest counter.

  A glass partition divided them. Charlie was surprised to see a woman behind the counter. An actual human! Normally, a robot would have sufficed, but Charlie figured a place like this would want to use a human.

  It made sense.

  Despite our flaws, humans were still proven to be more accurate than an automated service machine.

  A robot was fine for taking orders at a fast food restaurant, but this was much too important.

  The most important day of his life.

  “H . . . hello,” said Charlie, out of breath.

  The woman looked at him, her eyes vacant.

  “Is this your hour?” she asked.

  “Yes it is,” said Charlie, beaming.

  “Name?” she asked without emotion.

  “Charlie Hoag.”

  “Spell it.”

  “H-o-a-g.”

  “Ident number?”

  “Six-two-oh-seven-two-eight-one.”

  “District?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Do you have your summons?”

  Charlie reached deep into his pocket. For an instant, he couldn’t find it. He nearly panicked, then realized it was in his front pocket. He sighed heavily, pulling it out and handing it through the small opening at the bottom of the plexi-glass.

  Clickity-click of the keyboard.

  Tickity-tock of the clock.

  Charlie waited anxiously as the woman verified his identity and entered his information.

  He looked at his watch again.

  8:55 am.

  Charlie paced in place, nervously shifting his hands in front of him. He cracked his knuckles twice and brushed his hair back again. He was worried he had missed his time. He was worried, because Charlie had heard the penalties were harsh. He hated that he wasn’t early. He knew better than that. Charlie hated being late. He was always early.

  “I woulda arrived sooner, but the 12 was busy,” he said nervously to the woman. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  She said nothing, still typing.

  Charlie looked at his watch again.

  8:56 am.

  “I’m never late,” he added. “I always like being early. Especially to something as important as this.” Charlie smiled.

  She did not return the gesture.

  He looked up at the clock behind her.

  It clicked.

  8:57 am.

  “I just want to confirm that I’ll get recorded as being on time. Technically, I’m three minutes early,” he added with a fake, nervous chuckle.

  The woman pushed a button and printed a slip of paper. She handed it, along with his ID card, back to Charlie.

  “Be sure to have your ID ready again. They’ll take it from you for final processing. Don’t forget to pick it up after you’re done.”

  “You mean I made it on time?”

  “Yes.”

  “
Great. That’s juuust great. Whew! I thought I was late.”

  “Down the hall,” she said, her voice uncaring.

  “Oh, of course. Yes ma’am,” he replied, nodding his head. Before turning, Charlie looked down at his ticket. He added, “Does it say anywhere about the time? I just want to make sure I don’t get penalized for being late. I was three minutes early,” he repeated. “I just want to make a note of it. I hear the penalties are—”

  “The time is printed on your ticket,” she said dryly.

  “Oh, I see it. Good, it says 8:57 am. Usually, I’m always early, but today—”

  “Down the hall,” interrupted the woman, her voice flat and monotone. “Last door on the right.”

  Charlie passed down the corridor. It seemed to take forever, even though he walked fast.

  The walls were white, and the floor was shiny. Waxed daily, no doubt.

  The hallways smelled of disinfectant—a clinical feel to the whole thing.

  Overhead were fluorescent lights illuminating the hallway. They were bright and hurt Charlie’s eyes.

  He heard a soft tune overhead. No words, but the jingle was familiar.

  Charlie walked the stretch, wondering why the need for such a long hallway. He noticed there were no doors.

  Now that didn’t make sense.

  Only one room at the end of the hall.

  Nothing hung on the walls, but that didn’t matter to Charlie. The lack of color, the lack of life didn’t bother Charlie. He was a product of the future—the new society; his own apartment was a simple mix of cinderblock and steel. Nothing