Vulcanized

Once upon a Tim, time stopped. He was eleven years old, in the wings of the school auditorium. The music teacher entertained the waiting crowd on an out-of-tune piano, playing a new song that sounded old.

     Tim handed over his Casio to the principal. The principal said, “It will ruin the illusion.” The principal was referring to the watch being out of place during the impending performance. Tim was slated to play Charles Goodyear. He had one line, one word really. He was supposed to say it at a certain time. But time had stopped without his watch. He asked the principal why he couldn’t play George Thiess on stage instead of Charles Goodyear. 

     The principal said, “No one knows who that is.” 

     “You wouldn’t have that without him,” Tim said, pointing to the digital mass on the principal’s wrist. He recited accomplishments of George Thiess. 

     The principal frowned. “Is this man still alive?” 

     “Yes, he’s from here,” Tim said, meaning Texas.

     “Doesn’t count. This show is about dead people.”

     Without time, Tim struggled to follow the rehearsed sequence. He had his line memorized and the one before it. But everything was out of place, out of sync. Kids stomped on his feet, mouthed his line, and glowered at him. But it wasn’t time yet. There was no time.

     The music teacher skipped to the last song. Several children were denied their moment in the spotlight because of Tim. They called him names and made faces. A baby howled through the bows and forced a standing ovation.

     After scrubbing off his makeup, Tim approached the principal. “Can I have it back?” 

     The principal was furious, apologizing to several parents at once. He turned and said, “I don’t have time for you.”

     Without time, Tim missed the bus home. He walked; it got dark. All he could see were the white markings on the passing tires, the flashes of Firestone and Michelin logos. But no Goodyear. It wouldn’t be a good year; there was still a lot of school left. Months, maybe? It was hard to tell. His body was changing. He had hair growing in his armpits. He used to put his fingers under there when he was sweaty, and they smelled like butter. Now they reeked of something else. Someone shouted from a window. He put his hands over his ears; he felt hair there, on his back, too.

     He was an old man in the night. He took alternating lefts and rights but ended back at the school. He was the principal. The lights were blazing. Someone on a perfectly tuned piano was playing an old song that sounded new. There was genuine clapping. He reached into his pocket, and when he felt time, he finally said his one line, his one word.