Time Tales by David Daniel
Time Tales
By David Daniel
Past: 7 P.M. Sharp
At 6:00 P.M. the ship is waiting at the pier, music rising over the burble of diesel engines. The college is holding a sunset harbor cruise for its adult education grads, a last big hurrah on a fine spring evening. Dinner, drinks & dancing. Departure: 7 P.M. sharp. The commencement ceremony is slated for the morrow.
By 6:30 P.M. there’s a good crowd on board, ready for a night of fun to celebrate many semesters of hard work.
Come 7:00 P.M. the ship’s horn sounds, a deep bauuuughh rolling across the harbor front. Lines are cast off. Propellers churn. The ship draws away from the pier in a hurry of foam.
Looking off the stern I see a group of women, four or five of them, coming along the pier, attempting to run in high heels and tight skirts. Like they’ve shown up at a bus stop as the bus had started to drive away.
Others see them too, and a chorus goes up to the wheel house. Wait! More passengers! Stop!
But a ship is no bus. A ship cannot stop on a dime and go back. It keeps pulling away.
The women reach the end of the pier “yoo-hooing” and waving . . . but with a dawning awareness that the ship has sailed.
My heart goes out to them: all dressed up like that. Sharp. But, alas, not 7 P.M. sharp.
I wonder what eventually happened. Did they curse and sulk away, downcast and embarrassed? I like to think that they shook off their nautical defeat (one further lesson learned) and went downtown and had a good time.
Present: Painted Ponies
She’s talking about Duran Duran and I interrupt to ask, “Who are they again? I mean, I know, but . . .” She looks surprised, then starts to tell me, sounding just the teeniest bit patronizing.
I gave up listening to pop music after the 70s, figured it wasn’t going to get any better. Plus, I’d finally gotten down to the business of making a living and being respectable (why, I can no longer imagine). Here I am listening to a woman twenty years too young, with a purple scrunchie on her ponytail, tell me about crushing on Simon Le Bon, and how deep the lyrics of R.E.M. go, and more. But I don’t say I wasn’t paying attention back then, or that I’m not really paying attention now, either. I’m thinking about a song from my day, about painted ponies on a carousel and wondering when they speeded way the hell up.
Future: A New World
On a July morning, early, with heat already rising in woozy shimmers off the sand and small gray waves slapping lazily at my feet as I walk, I see the man. He is bending over and then straightening up, repetitively, feet planted, arms in motion. Aside from a few strollers farther away, oblivious, we are the only people on the beach.
He is wrinkled with age and in his loose-fitting white cotton pants and shirt he is intent on his actions. Practicing some Eastern martial art perhaps? Or praying? But as I watch him, nosey and unseen, I grasp the edges of something more. With each bend he is gathering handfuls of beach sand, throwing them into a cloth sack that sits nearby.
I think of the little men and women I see around the city, pushing shopping carts full of aluminum soda and beer cans, gathering up what the rest of us have cast off. And there is the couple I sometimes see walking purposefully along in single file, he holding a five-gallon plastic bucket, she following with a dip net. I greeted them once. “What are you hoping to catch?” I asked. She smiled and bobbed her head in a series of nods. “Eels.”
Now this man on a beach tossing handfuls of sand into a sack.
As I move on in the dizzying sun, the obvious explanation comes to me. All of these undertakings are connected. There is a conspiracy of grand and imponderable design afoot. A future world is in the making. A vast landmass of sand, with towering gleaming buildings built entirely of aluminum, and rivers running with eels. And America, barely bigger than Kansas, become like a stale cracker, empty at its core and nibbled at from all sides.
Nice sweet and to the point. Nice
Nice sweet and to the point. Nice
A clever triptych. Each panel capturing a moment in time.
It’s well known the past, present, and future is with us always.
We just need to be reminded.
Delightful reminder.
This is an interesting little experiment that works. I have only one complaint, namely, that in the second story the narrator raises Duran Duran to the same level as REM.
Dave Daniel, always interesting. I think that we’re getting a look here inside his notebook.
I just have to single out this great line: “music rising over the burble of diesel engines.” These are like postcards–I would like to see a whole collection of them.
I love all of it, but where did that last paragraph come from? Genius! Changed my whole way of thinking.
Guess I’ll have to start over.