the time machine

 

The Professor called the other night. I didn’t realize it was three months now since they’d taken him away.

He called to tell me he was out of the hospital. I knew it!

When I asked when they released him, he told me they hadn’t exactly released him, but that he was out just the same. Right then I knew, there was going to be trouble. BIG trouble.

The Professor says he’s discovered a way to beat back the bacterial invasion force from Planet Germanicus, and that he just needs time to sort it all out. Apparently, the Professor isn’t just a germaphobe and an agoraphobe, but a chronophobe as well. Maybe it’s just something he picked up during his stay at the laughing academy.

A Chronophobe is someone who believes there aren’t enough hours in the day, that somehow time is just slipping away. In fact, chronophobia is very common not just amongst inmates, but the elderly as well. If you’ve ever spent time behind bars, or at a retirement community, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

To solve this problem, to get the additional time he needs to beat back the Germanicans, the Professor claims he’s invented a time machine. He says it all came to him one day while in the hospital.

I told you the Professor was clever. But a time machine? It’s not what you think.

The Professor went on to describe his so-called time machine and even though I listened to everything he had to say, it was difficult getting through. If the Professor is a mad scientist, then self-abuse is his laboratory.

Now, this is no time machine like you might think of when you think of a time machine. It’s not some Everglades boat-looking device with a chair and a spinning wheel like in the HG Wells film (the 1960 version with Rod Taylor), nor is it a hot tub or a DeLorean like those other movies would have you believe. It isn’t a complex contraption either, like a Quantum Accelerator. No, according to the Professor, his time machine is of the simplest design. He also warned me, “It’s a concoction of the cruelest nature, like something right out of the Spanish Inquisition.” It goes like this.

“The traditional time machine is a contrivance of science fiction that allows the operator to move either forward or backward in time,” said the Professor. “My invention is neither contrived, nor science fiction. In fact, my time machine was created solely with the intention of slowing down time, and consists of nothing more than a hammer and a pair of pliers.”

I was used to the Professor’s gibberish.

“You see, time moving too fast is a problem for all of us getting up now in years.”

True.

“Seriously,” he said. “Think back when we were just kids. Remember a time like when we were in school waiting for the last bell to ring, or in church. It seemed like the clock just didn’t move. Remember?”

I do.

“Now that we’re older, it’s exactly the opposite, like the clock is spinning out of control. Want to know why?”

To my surprise, I did.

“Think about it like this. To a five-year old, one year might as well be an eternity. That’s because to a five-year old, one year is twenty percent of his whole life so far. But to an adult, say someone fifty years old, it’s just two percent. It’s all relative. Yes, it’s a getting older thing, but it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re losing your mind.”

I had to admit, he was making sense.

“Same thing with God. Yes, He created the whole shebang in just six days, but those were God days. You and I can’t even begin to fathom how long that is in human time. For God, it must have all happened in just the blink of an eye.”

A lot of sense. Once again, the Professor had sucked me right in.

“There’s been no solution to the problem: how to get time under control. Until now.”

The Professor went on to say he invented his time machine quite by accident. He said he tripped and fell and broke his nose while in lockdown, and that’s when it first came to him. He noticed that while in intense pain, unable to breathe normally, time seemed to stand still. “That first day,” he said, “felt like a week. It’s hard to quantify, but there was no doubt: time had definitely slowed.

“It cleared my mind and gave me time to do some serious thinking. I was able to focus on the bacterial invasion force from Planet Germanicus and how we can get ourselves out of this mess.”

I asked him, if he wanted to slow down time, how come he didn’t just stare at a clock? He told me he tried that, but after six hours the clock started speeding up again. He told me, if I didn’t believe him, try it sometime. Into the 12^th hour, it starts spinning out of control.

“Then, just when I thought I was really making some progress,” said the Professor, ”the swelling in my nose subsided and I could breathe freely again. Time started ticking faster and that was the end of that. I knew I had to slow it down again. I also knew, there was no time to wait for another accident. That’s when I came up with the idea for my time machine.”

Things were about to get ugly.

“Ever stub your toe?” said the Professor. The Professor lives by the rhetorical question. “Think about stubbing your toe, then multiply that by a hundred.”

I started counting.

“No, a thousand,” said the Professor. “That’s what it feels like when you bash your big toe with a hammer.”

Here we go.

“Not just bash it,” said the Professor, “but smash it. Smash it real good. Break it wide open and tear the toenail right off. Blood squirting everywhere.”

Sweet Jesus.

“Man, was that painful. But guess what?”

What?

“Yep, time stopped. Plain stopped. Then, when the throbbing itself died down, I was able to get back to some deep thinking.”

Lord have mercy.

“You really can’t concentrate when you’re in throbbing pain, or blood is spewing everywhere. It’s just common sense. But afterward, when the endorphins start to flow, that’s when the thought process really kicks in.”

The Professor went on to tell me how he took some pliers and began pulling out all his toenails, then his fingernails. Next, he yanked out all his teeth, one by one, then broke his nose again. When there was nothing left to break, he began burning himself, first with cigarettes, then with a clothes iron. Crazy thing was, the Professor neither smoked, nor did laundry. Just like with any mad scientist, however, no sacrifice was too great. Poor, Professor. He really should have stayed in the madhouse.

“All these are great,” said the Professor, “but they’re just short-term remedies. What I need is a final solution. Something big. Something that will stop the clock forever. Time is slipping away. If I don’t do something now, it’s going to be too late.”

I could only imagine what that Something might be.

Then, there was silence.

“Quiet,” whispered the Professor, “there’s someone outside my door.”

Quiet? But I hadn’t said a word.

“They’ve tracked me down,” he said.

Who? Who had tracked him down?

There was a pause. Then, the Professor said how beautiful the view was from his window, how he could see the beach down below and all the seagulls flying above. Fucking seagulls.

But the Professor’s apartment didn’t face the beach. I couldn’t even begin to imagine where he was. Then, he went deadly silent, like he always does when he gets an idea.

That’s the last time I ever heard from the Professor. I don’t know what happened to him, or his time machine. I have to assume it disappeared with him, wherever he went, just like I have to assume he did finally stop time once and for all. There was nothing I could have done about it, anyway. There’s just no stopping the Professor when he sets his mind to something.