11:38

“It was 11:38. For a whole year, every time I looked at the clock, the time read 11:38. I’m not saying that the clock was broken, I’m not an idiot, I’m saying if I looked at the clock when it was light out, it was 11:38am, and if I looked at the clock in the evening, it was 11:38pm.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It was the strangest thing, it was like I would forget about clocks, the existence of clocks, until 11:38 rolled around, and then suddenly I found myself both interested, and coincidentally always in the presence of, clocks!”

“Ya’ don’t say.”

“I do say!”

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, buddy. It’s 1:05.”

The man gestured his watch at the storyteller, then, finding him dismissive, shrugged his shoulders and tipped his porkpie hat as he strolled away.

Always the same, Lamont lamented.

He strolled down the street, careful to keep the hem of his long coat from the puddles of standing water, filled deep after a morning shower.

He reached his shop door and turned the key in the worn brass knob, a full revolution. As he crossed the threshold he flipped the switch for the bright red “Open” sign in the window, but he found that the light was already on; probably left on overnight, he grumbled to the empty store.

He walked through the walls of books, past Cryptozoology, Nordic Studies, and Vampirology, looking up and down each bookshelf, fronting where necessary (a habit he never lost from his Blockbuster days) and checking for trash.

He appreciated when Jonah closed, but his end of day duties left much to be desired.

He reached his sales counter and removed his top hat, placing it on an awaiting bat-shaped hook. He rubbed his finger over a small tear in the wallpaper; he’d never be able to find that specific periwinkle blue and dark green design again, it was a limited release, and those patterns were so wonderfully bizarre.

Maybe on eBay.

The day was slow, a few goths, a couple tourists in town for Mardi Gras, drunkenly stumbling through The French Quarter in the mid-afternoon. Jonah arrived for his shift at 2:00pm, 30 minutes late.

When the sun set he sent Jonah home. No reason to keep him past 6:00pm, and he doubted he’d leave the shop open until Midnight tonight; bad traffic in the morning usually meant a quiet night. People’s interest in the occult was typically seasonal, and that crowd represented a large portion of their business. His eyes drooped as the clock ticked to 9:00pm, and he decided to close early.

He was walking past Curse Lore when the bell announced a customer.

As quick as he could, he scurried back to the sales counter. He could hear them chatting from the aisles, but they weren’t speaking loudly enough for him to hear. Their voices seemed to rise and lower randomly; probably whispers, Lamont thought. He watched them on the security cameras, visible from his perch but not publicly, and they were browsing like interested buyers.

After a few minutes, the first of them made their way back to his sales counter. Her face was obscured by the stack of books in her arms, only her hair, a vibrant shade of pink, could be seen.

“We LOVE the shop, so cool.”

She loaded the counter down with her haul. As he rang it all up he was delighted to see the total climbing higher and higher. She paid with her card and he gave her a complimentary tote bag, because her purchase met their sales goal for the night.

Her friends all ended up with tote bags of their own, as well.

After they departed, he reflected on the evening; it had been lucky. He decided he would make it to midnight, it was only 22 minutes away.

The shop bell announced another customer. Lamont eagerly tracked this new client on the security cams, but he moved so fast through the aisles and his face was obscured.

It wasn’t until the man arrived directly in front of Lamont that he realized who he was.

“George Lucas!?!”

“Yes, Lamont! Come with me!”

Overtaken by the moment, Lamont grabbed his top hat and coat and dashed out of his shop alongside Writer/Director George Lucas, stopping only to glance at the clock on his way out.

“11:38. I knew it!”

“You and me both, kid.”

Lamont locked the door, not wanting to risk losing such a great day of sales. This time his key spun around two full times in the lock. Need to get that fixed, he noted.

He hurried after George Lucas, who was already across the street and twenty feet ahead of him, increasing his lead by the second. Lamont slid over the top of a car to get to the sidewalk and sprinted to catch up. When he reached the next side street, with Lucas still yards ahead, a windowless van pulled up stopping him in his path. The side door opened and three masked men grabbed Lamont bodily, dragging him into the van.

George Lucas turned at the sound of Lamont’s frantic yells, too late to intervene in the kidnapping. The door slammed shut as the three men held him to the floor of the van. One of them reached his wrist down and shoved his watch in Lamont’s face, “It’s 11:39, in case you were wondering.” right before he pepper sprayed Lamont in the eyes.

-

“What does it mean? What do the symbols mean? The staring eyes? The thorny tendrils?”

Lamont flew back in his mind to a chat with his friend Louis about their favorite magazine. They reviewed everything on calls together. Lamont peppered Louis with questions, not waiting for answers; his curiosity was so rapid fire. He turned the page they were poring over and saw a bald couple, man and woman.

“Is that Robert Duvall?”

“Yes, Lamont, that’s Robert Duvall.”

“What’s the connection?”

“He was in this indie movie, it’s about a guy who stops taking his meds, discovers love. Tries to leave the oppressive regime with robot cops chasing him.”

“Does he make it?”

“He gets to see his sunset.”

Lamont liked that.

-

A figure wearing a white Highway Patrol helmet kneeled on Lamont, its whole head looked to be made of metal.

“Everything will be all right.”

“Ok. I’d believe that if you got off me.”

The metal-man struck Lamont’s face with a heavy hand wrapped in a glove. His whole uniform stunk of oil and leather.

“Everything will be all right. You are in my hands.”

Another strike, this time in Lamont’s ribs. He couldn’t breathe.

“What do you want?”

A light popped on in the corner of the van. A man with white blond hair leaned over a green felt card table covered in poker chips and opened his mouth wide. Out of his gaping maw came a loud, beep, beep, beep, piercing Lamont’s ears. Suddenly, the world disappeared.

-

A groggy Lamont lifted his head from his pillow to peek out the window, pulling aside the Haunted Mansion curtains for a better view of the street. A truck was backing into the last available opening, its service beep sounding again and again as the man navigated into the small parking spot.

He felt like he hadn’t slept at all. He was so tired, too exhausted to do anything except stare at the ceiling of his studio apartment, too exhausted to sleep.

Today was tough, really tough, but he was home now, he made it. For a little bit, he was worried. Worried for himself, but mostly worried for his family.

He kept reality at bay by staying up late and watching that movie, and it had been so weird, but good weird. He delayed sleep even more, reading all about the film and its director, and the blockbuster space westerns he would go on to create.

When he finally decided to sack out, he didn’t even brush his teeth, he just hit the bed and crashed.

As he stared at his favorite crack in the ceiling, he figured he’d let the clock decide whether brushing his teeth was worth getting up: if it was late evening, he’d have to brush, if it was early morning, then this brief respite counted as snoozing. He looked over to his clock.

It was 11:38.