Shadows Smile, Time Doesn't
A Short Story, and a perspective on the concept of TimeBecomesMovement.
‘It would be nice if a shadow smiled…’
Shaka muttered to himself as he devoured his last peanut at 15:59. Time doesn’t smile.
He set his timer routinely as 16:00 struck.
Shaka’s workstation was tidy. His notepad was open to a clear page, new sticky notes rested beside his blue pen, its tip faced north, its lid south. Pens needn’t lids until the weekend. His Dell computer powered down and he rose as the fan slowed. He stood tall, stepped away form his desk ensuring his seat was positioned at an angle for reentry, checked his watch and almost grinned. Today was the day.
“Not like you to be happy to leave Shak… Goodbye.” A colleague of his called over, she was still sat whilst wearing her red and black kagool, a tattered hat, tight black jeans and what Shaka had learned to recognise as ‘Chelsea’ boots. He needn’t turn to her. He didn’t look back when another colleague called to him either. Time doesn’t turn. She wore a frilled geometric skirt, vest and wore (what he also jotted down in his notepad days ago), ‘kitten’ heels. Another colleague faced Shaka as he exited, Shaka walked through the woollen fleece and brown corduroys, it was unavoidable.
“Easy Shak.” His 3rd colleague said. Time doesn’t avoid.
Shaka didn’t curse their variety but it troubled him. Everyday he learned of a new ‘style’, how many could there be? Time has no clothes.
Shaka welcomed the outdoors, but blocked the juvenile chatter. All pupils were loose, disarrayed. He took his private exit and silenced the noise in his mind. He could do that now, after years of practice. He had no feelings for his work, or the school, or the pupils, or his colleagues, they were just; adults and children, occupying a square building, doing a job, or learning, to do a job. He’d learned from his observations that all adults have jobs, many of them, to look after children, and those children, when they became adults, would ultimately have jobs to look after their own, or other's children. Time has no job, no children.
He breathed in deeply, thinking momentarily.
Of the 7 hills in this city of steel he liked this hill the most. Layered below was the city’s organised buildings and roads leading to its 8 compass points. This particular hill peaked on City Road but Granville Road led up to its summit. Granville Road was one of his favourite ‘named’ roads too. There were few roads with such a steep gradient. His daily walks to and from the school, he made 7 days a week, whether the school was open or not. His routine couldn’t break for days beginning with S, they were still days in the week, added to weeks in a month, and completed months in a year. Time doesn’t skip. He would not miss a day.
He observed, still thinking.
Shaka had never ventured much further than Philimore Park RC School, his place of work, to his home. He found the 23 minute daily walk to be a pleasant one, refreshing, but something had changed within him; he had never noticed repetition before now. Nothing would be repetitive again. His walks ordinarily consisted of logs, logs of information, ordered and layered in his memory. His ‘jigsaw memory’ as his foster mother called it. His jigsaw was never complete at one moment in time but he had an awareness of where all the pieces were, would be or when they’d be placed. Homes and car locations were core pieces of his jigsaw, every adult had a car or a home. Cars connected to their owner; the owner to their family and that family to their faces. Each family had individual faces.
The faces he saw now, were visible but he blurred them. They often raced through his jigsaw memory as if commanded to do so and he was forced to remember each nose, eye, brow and chin he saw more than once; from shop assistants (not that he entered any shops), neighbours, bus drivers, bus passengers (not that he’d ever rode a bus), taxi drivers, chemists, doctors (he’d only spoken with 2), and all pupils too (of which he’d spoken to none). He imagined the faces blurred, and so they were, preventing them from contorting every instant, as faces do.
His remedy extended beyond blurring faces. Clothes. Shoes. Faces were too varied. But clothes, colours, patterns, shapes. Akin to buildings. Colours. Patterns. Shapes. These things made sense, were still, and made to last. Time lasts.
Shaka stepped out from his private exit, into the open. He would usually be 1 minute closer to home already, but he had added time. Just for today.
He had been entertaining a concept from a film. It was new to him, a 1st new for some time. He had watched this film over and over for 20 days now and he finally understood it. To see things in reverse is to see them ahead of time. It was the 2nd film he’d seen in his 33 Years. The idea took cycles of time to form, but today, was the day.
Shaka checked his pockets as he took long loping strides toward home. It was 16:06. Red Pen. 2 pound coins (2003). A round sharpener. HB 8.5cm Pencil. Compass. Good.
Shaka wore his uniform, an open collar navy checked shirt, straight cut navy trousers with a square silver button. The day was cold, but his jacket emerged only on the 23rd September until the 19th of March, all other days, whatever the weather, he wore his shirt only.
Cool wind sifted through the little pupils who lingered at every junction beyond the school gates. He shook his head, but smiled as he came into view, towering over them. ‘It would be nice if a shadow smiled…’ His foster mother used to talk about shadows often. She hadn’t responded well to his retort, Time doesn’t smile. But she was often right, she made sure she was right.
The pupils were dressed in customary grey pants, ‘baby’ blue shirts and diagonally stripped ties boasting a crest. They occupied every crevice of the path. Shaka noted things in his jigsaw. 4 girls, each with coal hair and puffer jackets attached to bright phones. 3 girls, 1 green and 2 yellow backpacks. 2 larger girls with long grey socks. 5 boys, 3 short, 2 tall, all wearing black pants. Shaka muttered to himself, annoyed. Uniform colours are grey. As he navigated around all, he ensured the distance was at least 2 yards, often he found himself walking on the road but he preferred this.
He turned onto Stafford Hill, striding enjoyably up hill, his long limbs pulsed. More children were littered. 4 backpacks, all black. 3 long skirts, all grey. 2 caps, facing backward. Shaka frowned. The uniform contested hats.
6 minutes of walking upward culminated to the next left turn, Baker Avenue, his street 9 minutes away. Terraced houses, formally strung out as Christmas cards, lined both sides of the street. This was another of his preferred streets, where the choked chimneys pointed upward. His fishing sandals were soft to his naked foot, he hardly noticed he wore them, and looked at them briefly seeing a mark. He made a note to polish them later. Another set of boys with black trousers and dark faces lined the path, all but one looked up at him from the pavement, he continued to smile, following the white lines in the middle of the road.
“Freak.” One of them said.
Shaka continued to smile. He turned to the boy without slowing, his neck twisting until he was a few yards ahead of the group. They laughed, then nudged each other and looked away, or down at the pavement.
Shaka checked his wrist and looked forward.
A familiar car skidded around a corner in the distance. Hooded figures chased the car. This odd car chase amused Shaka. His eyes widened. The car was red, lights shining, which caused Shaka to look to a lit clear sky, curious.
“Get off the road mister!” one of the boys said.
Shaka would not join their path and the opposite path was busy. More children, an elderly lady with a white flowered scarf and a man holding a bright dog leash in one hand and a child in the other. Shaka could have walked behind them but that would delay him. He continued walking. The car neared him and the horn sounded, he knew he couldn’t harm the car, so he walked on. The car swerved around him and crashed. He immediately changed his expression before he appeared strange. Smiling during an accident would be peculiar. The car crashed into a tree which leaned, quite broken, held up by a Land Rover. The hooded figures ran past Shaka. Each wielded a tool; wooden beam, leg of a chair, a metal railing.
“Thanks pal,” one said, face masked. “Is that you Shak?” the figure didn’t stop.
Shaka, found himself nod. He rarely acknowledged strangers but this wasn’t a strange scenario to him. He stopped for 30 seconds as he heard the commotion.
“…the fuck are you doin’, this i’nt your fuckin’ car.”
A horrible cry sounded from the car. Shaka didn’t turn to look, he continued to walk. He stopped again when he heard sirens some 20 seconds later. He checked his arm, the digital watch face looked back at him and beeped.
Shaka looked down at the white lines in the middle of the road, pleased.
Unexpectedly, an officer strode toward him.
“Out of the road sir.”
People were backing away from the commotion as a recoiling sea. Shaka realised the officer was coming closer, 5 yards, 4 yards, 3 yards, 2. Shaka began to mirror the steps. The officer stopped.
“Out of the road Sir!”
“Yes… Yes of course officer”
As he stepped around the officer, he maintained his yards, he felt a feeling of… satisfaction.
His alarm continued to beep as he twisted his neck toward the commotion. A man lay sprawled on the ground. He wore the same clothes Shaka had seen him in this morning, and last night and the day before. The car looked as though the sky had fallen on it. The hoods had scattered. Running. Police were running too. More sirens sounded.
So this is a crime scene! Shaka was giddy. The haze of blue light bounced off the surrounding windows. My crime scene! He enthused.
Shaka knew the man was no victim. He knew this man’s pattern after observing him for 20 days. Criminals were easiest to track. They wore the same dark clothes. Stole the same vehicles. Shaka smiled a true smile, a smile his foster mother would be proud of, and continued home. He was late, for the first time in 9 years. He knew today, Time, wouldn’t mind.