MINUTES

ALEYA SHARIF ZADEH

Every inch of his measly residence was covered with vicious, piercing clocks. A grand wooden ticker at the head of his bed, a small, shrill alarm by his bed lamp, strikingly large, sharp edged clocks of all shapes and sizes decorating the walls of his small, crammed living room. A huge, spine-chilling white clock with piercing handles ticking away was situated conveniently on the right wall of the kitchen, in perfect line with his gaze to track the time as he prepares his meals and gobbles it down in a heartbeat, making sure not to waste a single second doing something so mechanical as eating. His every move was carefully monitored by the harmonious tick of the twenty-eight clocks devouring every nook and cranny of his already congested apartment.

He planned his days down to the very last minute. He starts his day at exactly 4:55 am; give himself enough time to toss and turn before getting out of bed at exactly 5:00 am; even in the haze of sleep he times himself well. He gives himself exactly six minutes to freshen up and dress in the morning and rushes to the kitchen to prepare a quick, tasteless breakfast, good enough to give him the necessary nutrients to start his day and simple enough to be eaten in a few minutes, as he washed the dishes that he used to prepare his meal. After a whole eleven minutes of preparing, eating and cleaning his kitchen counter, he scurries to his tiny table below a square shaped, hideously large clock situated in the corner of his already stuffed living room. Everything always seemed so big in small spaces.

He never considered moving out of the tiny hole he called a home; bigger spaces mean more time wasted moving from one spot to the next, more effort wasted organising and cleaning the space, and that thought alone sent shivers down his spine. He hunched down in his seat and typed away at his computer in rapid clicks. After working for exactly one-hundred-sixty-six minutes, he grabs a small, stale cracker from his

desk drawer. A quick snack before jumping onto his online meetings. Thirty seconds to chew, ten seconds to hydrate, twenty seconds to log in to the meeting room, sixty seconds to organise his workspace, test his camera and mic, get his notebook and pen ready to jot down notes.

He makes sure his morning calendar is always fully booked. He did not understand why people schedule work so late in the morning; what a waste to sleep in and hover to work at 9 am; by then he has already accomplished almost 60% of his daily tasks! He keeps his comments short and constantly makes sure no one in the meeting goes off track. After the one-hour mark, he abruptly leaves the meeting room and joins another. Other people’s slack is none of his business; he sticks to schedule and so should everyone else, its basic manners. His eyes constantly hover back between his computer screen and the endless ticking of the clock. Running with time, he never felt like he could catch up. He was always a few steps behind, a few ticks too late, a few breathes too slow. After exactly two-hundred-forty minutes of online meetings, he rushes to the centre of the living room, a small patch of space where he jogs in place for exactly twenty minutes. That’s his form of daily exercise.

He then proceeds to sit on his tiny, uncomfortable couch just big enough to envelope him in as his eyes rapidly run through the pages of his novel for forty minutes. After a horribly packed morning, he walks back into the kitchen and grabs whatever fruit or vegetable he finds in his fridge and chews away for no longer than three minutes. Food was simply a form of sustenance there to help him run faster through

the day. Any other purpose would be absolutely wasteful. At exactly 2:05 pm he rushes back to his desk to prepare his tutoring lessons for the day. With a large group of global students, he has to play his part with time-difference; ah, what a joy to live through someone else’s morning, or someone else’s evening! What a thrill to be getting new hours of the day added to one’s life! His zest for time was truly endless.

By 11:45 pm, he sluggishly walks towards the bathroom, ready to wrap up for the day. As he stood by the sink, hazed, his mind throbbing and heart faintly beating, his gaze fell on his reflection on the bathroom mirror. Hollowed eyes, motionless lips, furrowed brows. My fleeting youth. Where did all my time go, how did I end up like this? A single tear struggled down his haggard face. He looked down at his scrawny wrists. He grabbed a pen from his left pocket; he always had a pen handy in-case he ever ran out of ink in the middle of writing. What a waste of time it would be to go burrowing for a pen amidst the chaos of his desk.

He drew a little, dainty circle on his left wrist, “Remember when dad used to draw a little watch on your wrist when you were younger? He told you to always chase after time like it was your last.”

It’s been 5,256,000 minutes since I last saw him.