10.31.06

Smoke on the Syrup, or, How I Missed the Time Warp

Posted in Whatever, Me, Seattle Stuff, Reality is Weird, Writings at 10:37 pm by Spencer

Monday morning. Ugh. Feel like I’ve been sleeping on sticks. I spent Sunday cocooned — didn’t leave the house, no radio, no TV (except for a DVD or three), no newspaper, no email (I don’t think)…just coffee, the muse, and later some spaghetti. I don’t even bother with 60 Minutes.

As I’m falling asleep, I remember I have to go to the bank. Crap. That means being Late For Work, and lately my employer is a stickler about that. Now suddenly it’s 8:30 and for NPR, Shea Stevens is telling me the headlines. Snooze. Man, I could use another hour of sleep. Radio again. Crap okay okay I stand up, bump into a couple walls, then call in to my boss. Except, huh that’s kinda odd, no one’s at the switchboard. (Am I awake yet?) Well, receptionists need late, too, so whatever. Ain’t the first time. I use the spell-finder whatsis and leave a message for my manager. “Hi, it’s me. It’s, er, ten to 9 and I’m afraid I have to go to the bank. Everything’s covered…” etc. The radio’s all election blah blah, so I shower and while shaving there’s another top of the hour.

And there’s this “public service” story during the local headline news slot about how now that we’ve lost an hour, to be extra careful driving in the dark.

Oh. Right. Fall back. Fuuuuck.

The whole time change thing remains strange and jarring to me even though I’m now 40 and have spent more than half my life in places where the time changes twice every year. I guess everyone feels about the same about it (bearish), but I grew up in central Indiana, where the time never changed — never had, never would. What was the point? The days were still shorter or longer or whatever. Big deal. All that corn still grows in rows. Since there was no time change, what time shows were on TV would shift an hour one way or the other, depending on the season. It was like school that way, what time the Muppet Show and Emergency were on. A sure sign of impending winter. I remember when I moved to Chicago at the age of (only just) 19 and the utterly bizarre and hard-to-describe-and-despite-myself thrill of the first time I experienced a time change. It was ridiculous in its pomposity, especially sitting next to a small inland sea. Perhaps not coincidentally, the local PBS affiliate later showed Dr. Who during late night.

So…anyway, an unexpected hour until the bank opens, and me all dressed up with nowhere to go. Fug it. Have me some big breffast. I buy a paper and stroll into my neighborhood breakfast franchise establishment. Get seated. Hm. Kinda chilly in here. Oh hi, yeah I’ll have the Western skillet thing, that sounds good thanks. Coffee arrives, I’m sipping the paper, and I smell that early season furnace smell of gently roasting dust and settled cat hair. Sense memory takes over, and I feel peripherally transported to a dozen previous autumns of my life all at once.

Gradually, between sips, I become aware that the slightly chilled IHOP dining room is slowly filling with an increasingly dense carpet of white smoke from, oh, about mid-thigh on down. It’s like my dad’s pipe smoke when I was a kid.

Looking around, the few other tables are all taking no apparent notice, and then I see the one waiter climbing up on the ticket station and fiddling with the beige (once white) box at the base of the beige (once white) vaulted ceiling, then climbing down and walking briskly in seemingly random ellipses. There’s a cell phone flourish and then back up again. That thermostat looks like it’s probably kinda greasy.

“Yeah, I cranked the heat and this is what happened,” he answers my Customer’s Brow as he shuttles past in the now rather endearingly Scottish moor-like white fog and opens the exterior door-to-a-pit near me. “Sorry about this, but I’ll close this in 5 or 10 min.” Yeah man, it’s all good. Sip. The business casual guy on the other side of the floor chortles for some reason.

Breakfast arrives with precisely 15 min. until the bank opens, as the chill smokey breeze wafts through with the sound of passing morning traffic.

Sip. Reminds me I’ve been meaning to dig out my gloves. Mm, I’m glad the pancakes come with after all.

I tip the waiter extra well when I leave, smack on the dot. Turns out the other guy who was supposed to work hasn’t showed up. Figures, don’t it, hang in there man. As I walk out the door, I’m suddenly 23 and working in a coffee house again.

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