double time

This week, I used my wristwatch to time several things: a live Bob Dylan song (8:33), a help-wanted radio script I wrote (0:58) and my morning run (59:67). But in each instance I hit the lap button instead of stop, meaning the watch captured the length of the occasion, but after ten seconds secretly resumed its speedy march. When I finally looked at my watch again -- in some cases the next day -- and saw those numbers still racing, I let out a little gasp like I'd left the baby on the train. My double was still running that dirt road with no end in sight -- cramped, thirsty and panting. Dylan had slipped from his cowboy suit and sat on the edge of the stage in sweaty underclothes, crooning into his second night. And my client was flooded with job applicants, the marathon plea penetrating the minds of even the happily employed -- lawyers, deans, sous chefs all requesting interviews for the salesman's job. It took a moment to regain composure and another to resist the urge to revel in my power. Then with a push of the stop button, I released them. The showroom cleared out, delirious citizens scratching their heads as they climbed back into their cars and returned to kitchens, courtrooms and campuses. My twin collapsed on the shoulder in a neighboring county, then stumbled toward a pharmacy for ibuprofren and a bus schedule. And Dylan grabbed his clothes and headed off stage where he drained two bottles of water, staggered onto his darkened tour bus and fell into an unmade bed, snoring before his head even hit the pillow.