'Twenty-four / seven,' we say when we talk about all-day, all-through-the-week kinds of realities. But how carelessly we throw around these notions of days and weeks, like they are nothing, or mere amounts of time. Let me say this: they are Something, not just an amount or a description. I'm convinced of it.
But, I am getting ahead of myself (yes, pun intended). If none of this is understandable, that isn't a surprise. I wouldn't have understood it either, Before.
And so let me tell about the series of events which began one cold January morning when I started living not 'twenty-four / seven,' but 'seven / twenty-four.'
1:00 pm UTC -6, 8:00 pm UTC +1
Clunk!!
The pain pounding in my head! My legs turned to butter; I sank to the concrete floor. My hand found a swelling mass on the forehead.
Blackness spread toward the middle of vision, retreated, then pushed in again. And yet remarkably through the blur I recognized a rectangular object on the floor: my cell - it had slipped from my pocket. Out of habit, I activated the display with a touch. My eyes focussed: 1:00 pm, Friday January 2, 2015.
I knew what had happened. I'd just used a small electric forklift to place a pallet of materials onto the third level of warehouse shelving. With the pallet secure on the shelf, I withdrew the forks and lowered them to head height. It was then I spotted my recently misplaced clipboard on the lowest shelf. I stepped off the forklift platform, retrieved the clipboard, and spun around. Too close to the raised forks. Clunk. It sounded like a hand thumping a watermelon.
"Kyle? You OK?" came a voice from the end of the aisle. From my kneeling position, I managed to turn toward the voice. But no words came; instead, my gut clenched as the motion produced a wave of nausea.
"Hey! Someone get Dan over here for First Aid!" the voice shouted. "Kyle is down and hurt!"
I felt only dimly aware of the next few events. There came the sounds of hurrying feet, and a different voice said, "Let's get something on that." A cold compress was pushed firmly but gently against my throbbing forehead. I cringed, but a hand braced my head to keep the cold pack in place.
The pain began to subside.
"Kyle, let me look at you," came the voice again. Dan - our middle-aged shift supervisor - came into focus. He stared into my eyes, then turned to someone beside him and spoke quietly, but not quietly enough; I heard: "Call 911."
Oh wonderful, I've really messed myself up.
"Kyle, we're getting an ambulance for you," came Dan's direction as he placed a reassuring meaty hand on my shoulder. He draped a blanket around me, and something was placed behind my back to prop me up.
Time slipped by. Everything took on a fuzzy-edged, muted, dreamlike quality.
I became alert again at the grasp of a hand on my arm. "Hey, Kyle, wake up." A tall, jacketed man crouched in front of me. "My name is Shawn. I'm a paramedic. You ready to let me look at you for a few minutes?"
The paramedic began the examination. "So I know your first name is Kyle. What's your last name?"
"Stone." My tongue felt thick.
The paramedic took my arm and pressed his fingers into my wrist to feel for the pulse. "Do you know where you are, Kyle?"
The answer seemed buried in my mind. Not home. The smell of processed metal seemed to trigger a rush of information: "I'm at work. 'Threadfast'. In Swift Current, Saskatchewan."
"How old are you?" The paramedic shone a light into my eyes.
A pause was required before I could answer: "Twenty-five."
The assessment finished. "Kyle, we're going to bring you to the hospital. That's a nasty bump and we need to get you looked after," the paramedic explained while he and his partner fit a cervical collar around my neck. They wheeled a stretcher close and helped me onto it. The actions drained my energy, and I heard myself moan as they began to strap me in.
While the paramedics poked an intravenous needle into my left forearm, I realized I still held my phone in my right hand. I glanced at the display. 1:51 pm.
"OK, we're moving him out," said Shawn as they started to roll the stretcher down the aisle. He looked at Dan. "Could you let his family know?"
Dan nodded, then made eye contact with me. "You get better," he instructed, trying to cover his worry with a fake smile.
I didn't like that I had caused all this drama by my careless act. So I attempted - lamely - to lighten the situation: "OK, boss, if you say so, I'll get better." Dan returned another weak smile. The stretcher wheeled past the onlookers toward an entryway. Cold January air swept over me when the doors opened.
The paramedics slowed the stretcher as it approached the ambulance deck. I looked into the
YOU ARE READING
7/24: Time Like No Other
Science Fiction"Time is moving differently for me. It is skipping like a fast-moving stone on water. Through the week and around the clock - in that order! Into danger." After an accident, Kyle Stone begins to experience a mysterious movement of time. He skips thr...
