It's About Time

The Webster stories, "Webster's Diction" , are best read in order.

This story is the FINAL lecture in the series of lectures given by Professor Webster.

The lectures are ordered as follows:
#1 is "The Color of God" , #2 is "Silence in G Minor" , #3 is "Three Hats, a Blind Man and a Dime" , #4 is "Aristotle’s Pigeons" , #5 is "Waiter, There is Fate in my Soup" , #6 is "Is There a Problem Here" , # 7 is "It's a Matter of Fact"  and # 8 is "Webster and the Case of the Missing Link" , #9 is "The First Day of Forever" , #10 is "Surviving Death-Neat Tricks of the Soul" .

It’s About Time

“It’s about time!”

“I’m sorry, sir, its just that, uhm, I mean,” Cabra looks to his wristwatch for support, as he rushes for his seat. The watch tells him he’s three minutes early. Of course, Webster’s faceless wall-clock says 3:38 p.m., but we all know it runs a little fast. Even Webster must not place much credence on a clock with a penned slogan of, ‘time sucks, and then you die.’

“It’s about time!” Webster repeats, looking into the space between Cabra and Carlisle, making both of them quite uncomfortable. Cabra turns an interesting shade of crimson when he realizes Webster was just identifying his lecture and not chastising him for being late.

“The lecture has started, thank you, we’re done.” Webster is trying to be funny, but it comes out scripted, almost as if he is having trouble remembering a good joke, wrecking the punch line in the process.

“I told you, he’s a robot, and here, ladies and gentlemen, is our first mechanical failure.” Carlisle elbows Cabra for his attention, nearly knocking him off his seat.

“Duration!” Webster looks awfully pale today, nothing at all like his rosy self.

‘A little green,’ Gupta couldn’t help thinking, ‘like last night’s sky, before the storm.’ He looked to Cole, who too seemed to have a worried look to her, her forearms on her desk, as if ready to leap.

“All things come to pass,” Webster pauses for a slight cough, as if trying to reset the rhythm to his lecture, “There is no time but the present. Duration is naught, but what I remember it to be. Without memory there is no past, and without the past there is no future, for what is the future but a set of expectations that I derive from my experiences, from my past. Without memory there is no time, without memory it would always be now on the clock of God.”

“But memory is faulty, we all know that, and it fails to categorize with a sense of linearity. Instead, it stores our experiences by the price we pay. The sorrowful things that happen in the span of a moment, will cause us grief for the rest of our days. That is the price we pay. So what is duration, what does it mean to last an hour or a day, or one hundred years, if not for the memories, if not for the price we pay.”

There is silence in the room, not because the topic is fascinating, but because, for once, Webster is filling-in the void, he is completing his thoughts, even Carlisle is not totally confused.

Webster continues, “Time is not the villain that sucks my life, deliberately, like its favorite dark chocolate, until it is nothing but an after-taste, a faint memory. Time is a companion that sees me through my days. Oh, I remember when time was an out of breath tag-alonger who could scarcely keep up with me. But She’s all caught up now.” Webster’s voice is reminiscent and tired , “She’s all caught up now.”

“So, my young friends, how do I measure time?” Webster asks rhetorically and no one takes it otherwise. Gupta’s eyes do not look questioningly to Cole, Carlisle does not have a funny remark to put to Cabra and Lauren just looks intently at Webster.

“And what about space?” Webster looks frail, perhaps he stayed up late to craft his lecture.

We all know that this would be an opportune time for Carlisle to make a smart remark like, ‘the final frontier,’ but even Carlisle feels alone at this point and what fun can a remark be when it is put to an empty room.

“Space is to matter as a pause is to music.” Webster continues with apparent deliberate effort, “Without space I would not know extension or shape, without pause I would not know the beauty of a drum roll. Space is not a void or a vacuum, it is not emptiness, it is simply the stage on which we practice our lives. Space is the Earl Grey tin can in which I keep my kodakchrome memories.” Webster pauses again, this time creating a vacuum, drawing in the many looks of concern.

“Space and time are inexorably connected. Space is that in which I recognize all things, and time is a fading memory of what I used to know. But not all memories are faint,” Webster pauses to close his eyes and swallow, “Some memories are as large as the price we pay.”

With eyes still closed, Webster leans forward to rest his weight on his right hand, abruptly bringing his left hand upon his chest, ‘Muriel, you surprised me, don’t sneak up on me like that, you know my heart is weak. How do you like tomorrow’s lecture Muriel? Its Ok, isn’t it? Its about time, Muriel. I could have used your help on the geometry of space Muriel, I know you would have helped me Muriel. Yes, Muriel, I know its late, but I’m really getting somewhere with this lecture. Its about time, Muriel, it’s about time. Have a cup of tea Muriel and then we’ll go to bed. Oh, Muriel, its been years since we’ve danced, you know I’m all left feet, all right, all right, stop tickling me, you know it makes me short of breath. Yes, please, I could use a biscuit, I’ve got that emptiness in my stomach, you know, like before every lecture, like the day we got married. How do you like my lecture Muriel? Its about time. Can you believe it Muriel, nerves, at this point in my life, nerves. I’m shaking, you see? Nerves like the day we got married. I take this woman. I’ve got the ring right here, I swear I do. I do. But I’m a little nervous Muriel, my hands feel stiff and cold Muriel, forgive me, but I have the ring right here. My stomach is weak Muriel and my jaw, you know, it’s stiff, but there’s no pain, it kinda tickles, you know. Muriel, its just nerves, don’t be concerned, just nerves. Here’s the ring Muriel, its about time isn’t it? I take this woman. Will you take me, Muriel? Take me Muriel. You’re always so warm at this time of night Muriel. I can’t help it if my feet are cold. Will you take me, Muriel? Take me, Samuel B. Webster, Samuel Barnyard Webster.’

“Its about time.” He says to Cole, her outstretched hand brushing up against his arm, as the paramedics wheel him away. The paramedics arrived inside of ten minutes, but an infinity had passed.

Gupta has one hand on Cole’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, she can feel it, though she feels little else. Carlisle rests his head on his hands and Cabra fiddles silently with his notebook, as if afraid to close the pages.

There is a new pitch to this silence, not like the hopeful pause between Webster’s staccato notes, which keep you balanced on your seat and elbows, but an absolute silence, causing Gupta to lose his otherwise good balance. ‘Life is broken silence,’ Gupta thinks, wishing he could underline Webster a thousand times more.

Lauren’s eyes are fixed on the faceless clock, still running too fast, the inscription unreadable for the blur in her eyes. She squeezes her eyes tight and rubs her temples as if attempting to capture Webster’s many proclamations, as they linger about the room, like the musty smell of a box of old hats, ‘An artist only paints what he wants you to see, there is so much beyond the frame,’ ‘Close your eyes, if you want to see.’ A sense of peace comes over her and she no longer rubs her temples, but brings her hands together over her tight lips and whispers, “No one can step out of forever.”

Gupta’s Notes:

Gupta and Cole have been holding hands for nearly an hour now. Not a single word has parted their lips. Cole squeezes his hand intently, his freshly rubbed wedding band cuts deeply into his finger, but Gupta remains silent, for he knows that a simple word can disrupt a memory that will last a lifetime. They watch as the late winter snow gives way to patches of green. ‘New peas,’ Cole thinks, ‘the color of God.’



A sincere thank you goes out to each and every one of you who have read and commented on the Webster stories. Your kind comments and, in some cases, strong disagreement made this series that much more interesting to develop and write. If you wish to comment on this or any other story in this series, please feel free to email me, or drop a note in "Professor Webster's Mail Box"