Compilation of Local Writers' Stories

The 188-Minute Man

I sat across from doctor Stratulli while he examined my credentials. I looked around the room curiously. "Is this a picture of you?" I asked, holding up a framed black and white photograph of two young men in lab coats.

"Yes, it is," he said. "Although, that was taken many years ago."

"Good lookin' fellas. Who's this?" I asked pointing to the other man in the picture.

He smiled, "thank you. That is an old colleague of mine." He took the frame from me and gazed at it. "Ben Sanders. He was quite the popular one with the ladies. He would have loved you." I felt myself blush. "I mean it, any guy would be lucky to grow old with you."

"Thank you," I laughed.

"Well Miss, Whitmore, everything seems to be in order here. Did they tell you about the medical precautions?" he asked.

"Yes. They said I needed an immune system booster if I wanted to interview him directly."

"Will that be an issue?"

"No."

"Perfect. I'll grab one on the way down," he said, looking at his watch. "We are on a tight time schedule."

"The long hall to the interviewing chamber lacked all personality. No pictures hung on the walls. There were no fake plants or statures to break up the monotony. There were not even door numbers or name tags identifying the rooms.

We turned into what I guessed was an infirmary. It was equally as boring. "You've going to administer the shot?" I asked.

"Well, I am a doctor," he answered. He turned towards me with a syringe prepared in one hand. "Is that a problem?"

"No, no." I said, not wanting to offend him. I began to roll up her sleeve. "I just figured you had other people for things like that."

"This goes in leg," he said. "It's an intraosseous injection." I stared at him. "It goes into the marrow of the bone."

"Oh." I was nervous. "Is this the only option?" I asked.

"Yes, I am afraid." He replied. "You see, with a subject like this we must take all precautions to keep you safe."

There was a brief pause. "If you'd like, I could someone else to do the inter-"

"No." I protested. "I'll do it." This could make my career Do you know how many reporters would kill to interview the 188-minute man?

The injection hurt more than I thought it would, but I held the pain in. The doctor explained that the 188-minute man seemingly never 'died', like most rumors suggested. "You see, his tissue does not die, not completely. Most of it does and what is left deteriorates to a small jelly-like substance, about the size of a fetus."

I sat there, rubbing away the pain from the injection site while he continued. "Basically, he starts as a cluster of cells and develops into an adult. He goes through the same lifecycle stages we all will, only at an alarming rate."

Every 188 minutes, right? I asked. Thats why they call him the 188-minute man?

He sighed, yes. But please, do not call him that during your interview, he begged.

Oh, sorry. Of course.

"It is okay. It does not bother me, but his existence is a painful and lonely one. I would hate for him to learn that people on the street have named him, like a freak in a sideshow. He continued with his orientation. He goes through a years worth of change, on average, every two minutes. Following each death, he deteriorates to the same jelly-like substance he started as and the process begins again.