TANNER ON TIME (part two) “What’s ‘about time’, sir?” The guard was giving Tanner one of those dubious looks that people often hammered his way – fierce, uncomprehending glares. (Of course, the confusion was understandable; it was not easy being so smart in a world of such dolts. Tanner didn’t expect people to grasp right away what he brought to each party.) “I have something I need to share with you,” Tanner said. Calming words, he felt, although the invisible stickshift tilting the guard’s expressions still looked like it might be stuck halfway between ‘angry and bewildered. The employment agencies truly needn’t to do a better a job at screening their applicants these days. Astonishing, who got the gig. “Do you have an appointment here?* the guard asked. “Well, definite ‘appointment’, Tanner said, smiling. The guard slowly put down his newspaper and apple juice.. “Did you call one of our businesses beforehand, is what I meant, he said, the whole sentence almost a sigh, yet his soft, charmingly foreign Pakistani accent sounded almost melodic to Tanner, a pleasantly benign, harmlessly other, auditory counterpoint to the simmering stare of his face. “I haven’t called anyone, no,” Tanner said. Keeping up his smile. “Yet I think some people would be VERY interested in what I have to say.” “And what is that, exactly?” The guard slowly twirled his apple juice around in his left hand, the last little bit of liquid sloshing against each glass side of the bottle. (Even the drink looked bored.) “With the greatest of respect, I’m afraid I’ll have to speak to someone in a, how shall I put it, higher position.” The bottle stopped twirling. “And who would that be, sir?* the guard asked. “Any number of people,” Tanner said. “The president of this building, preferably.” The guard set the juice bottle aside, carefully setting it down on a STARBUCKS coaster, slowly picking up his newspaper while he rose up from his seat, his junior-Santa-Claus belly meekly bulging its way over the top of his belt. “Sir, there is no ‘president’ of this building,” he said. “There are any number of businesses on each floor, most of them having to do with the financial sector. If you have a specific appointment with a specific person at a specific company on a specific floor, please tell me right now, and I’ll be more than happy to ring them up to confirm your arrival. If that is not the case I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Well, then. Tanner kept the smile going, but inside, the grin was gone. This being the first time he’d actually been inside the building, the sight of a guard at the desk had actually thrown him for what some might call a loop (an expression that Tanner could never quite comprehend), but he believed that the tantalizing prospect of important info in his grasp would be just enough of a tease to smooth his way in. Apparently not. Another tactic would be needed, but any such strategy was superseded by the realization that the slightest drop of sweat was dabbing his upper lip’s middle point. Could the guard see it? Did Pakistani people have better vision than everybody else? Hadn’t Tanner read that somewhere? There were so many facts in his brain, so much accumulated info, a veritable encyclopedia of life in all its rich varied forms, so extracting one or two random bits of trivia with no prep-time at all was not truly fair, when you boiled things down their essence, cut right to the gist. All things being (un)equal, this security guard just was not playing fair. (Was the point.) “I want you to know something,” Tanner said, raising the index finger of his left hand and pointing it vaguely upward, skyward, heavenward. (He’d someone do that on TV once, a professor of something-or-other, lecturing to his awestruck students at one-school-or-the-next, completely in command of the room and himself, and tanner knew that the gesture looked, if not threatening, at least assertive.) “I’ve been watching this place,” Tanner continued. “For the past few weeks. And something very, VERY peculiar is taking place here. A transformation that nobody else is even noticing, let alone doing anything about. I just want to make it clear, before you, for the record, that I alerted the proper authorities connected to this edifice that something was afoot, and that I offered to present the connected parties with evidence of my concern. That’s all I’m saying.” The guard’s face was now more of a squint. “You sound like a terrorist, and I’m calling the police,” he said, slowly reaching for the corded phone on his desk. “No, of course not, ridiculous!” Tanner said (or sputtered, basically), already backing up, images of policeman arriving with black batons raised up high. There might ensue a night in jail, a small article in THE OTTAWA CITIZEN, his reputation destroyed. No one would be bothered to look at his photos – or, if they did, they would not notice the time-slip, or pretend not to see. Best to stay calm, dignified, even mannered. “I am on my way, kind sir,” Tanner said, still backing up, wondering if his arse would hit the revolving door any time in the present-to-near-future. (Was it the building itself having this effect, slowing time down to a mere crawl? Or were the ones in charge of shaving away seconds of time every week somehow manipulating things now, way up in the penthouse, somehow taunting and toying with Tanner’s attempt at an exit?) The guard held the phone in his hand, halfway between the receiver and his face, for the entire time that Tanner strode backwards, seeming almost like a threat, or at least a sharp caution. Staring into his sad, minimum-wage-earning eyes, however, Tanner noticed that they didn’t seem terrified, or even worried, but almost disappointed, even pitying, as if Tanner himself was no better or worse than the homeless folk that would loiter around Sparks Street Mall after dark had descended. Not being taken seriously was one thing; made to feel tragic was deplorable. Finally, after what felt acuely like a millenium or two, Tanner felt his bum back into the revolving door. His cue to turn around, obviously, and get the hell out. The urge to say a few final words, proclaim his secret in full, was strong and tempting, but a declaration as this would have to wait for the future. If the very inhabitants and protectors of the affected building weren’t concerned with their own future at risk, he would simply have to find another means of advancing the justice of his cause. Time itself was at stake. This is not over,” Tanner said as entered the whirl of the door and escaped in its spin. “It is for you, my friend,” the guard called out (almost, was it, mockingly?) from across the length of the lobby, grabbing his apple juice bottle with one hand while gently putting the phone back in its place, and Tanner in his.
Posted on: Thu, 07 Nov 2013 10:30:56 +0000
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