THE MAN WHO HAD RUN OUT OF TIME

Frank Roger

I arrived at the station, checked my watch, noticed that I was early. I looked around, hoping to find a coffee bar already open for business.

A man came up to me, raising his hand, trying to get my attention.

“Excuse me,” he said, “can I have a few moments of your time?”

The man looked like a typical commuter, dressed in a suit, no doubt an office worker, not some wino or a beggar or someone out to rob me. So I decided to give him a chance.

“How can I help you?”

The man smiled gratefully and replied:

“As I said, I’d like to have a few moments of your time. Say fifteen minutes. I would say that’s reasonable.” He shot me an expectant look.

“What do you want me to do?” I said, not quite sure what the man was after.

“I’m short on time,” he explained. “I desperately need more of it. It’s a bit of an emergency, you see. Fifteen minutes would be helpful, but the more the better of course. Well? Can you spare me some of your time?”

I shook my head. I failed to see what this man was talking about. He seemed honest, didn’t come across like someone suffering mental health issues. Maybe he was a prankster?

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“A joke!” he exclaimed, taking a step back as if I had insulted him. “This is not a joke at all. Now please, do me a favour. Download fifteen minutes for me and transfer them to me. It would make a huge difference for me.” He sounded desperate.

“Download fifteen minutes?” I repeated, flabbergasted. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Aw, come on,” he wailed. “I can’t stay here forever. Take your switch and get that download for me.” He pointed at my wristwatch. I pulled up my sleeve a bit, wondering what this was all about.

The man stared at my watch, dumbfounded, then shifted his gaze back to me.

“What’s that you’re wearing on your arm? I’ve never seen anything like it. Don’t you have a switch? Are you sure that thing is legal?”

“It’s a watch,” I stammered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now I really have to go. I have to catch a train. I can’t help you anyway, and I’m losing my time here.”

“You’re losing your time?” the man said, raising his voice and sounding irritated, with anger boiling up inside him. “You have no idea what you’re saying. The nature of time is clearly beyond you. You’re not equipped to download time, you’re a misfit, a disgrace. Are you quite sure you belong here? Did you slip through the cracks from an alternate timeline or so? In that case you better slip back before they catch you.”

The man shot me a final look, turned around and walked off at a brisk pace. I checked my watch to see if I could still catch my train, but it had stopped. That was strange. Now I remarked that it was unusually quiet, whereas by now it should be bustling with activity. I only saw a few people off in the distance. Something was wrong here.

I was still considering my next move, as I saw two security agents walking up to me. They wore blue uniforms, sporting the insignia TP in bright red.

“Is there a problem, sir?” one of them asked, obviously suspicious. He didn’t wait for an answer from me, produced a device that looked vaguely like a flashlight from his pocket and said: “Allow me to scan you.”

He pointed the device at my face, shone a beam into my eye.

Then he checked the readings on a tiny screen and said:

“I failed to obtain a reading. That’s unusual. May we see your switch?”

I nodded, pulled up my sleeve, and said: “All I have is this watch. Now, a few minutes ago, this guy approached me…”

“No switch, no profile,” he interrupted me. “Do you realize what that means, sir?” He sounded quite frightening.

I remained silent and he continued: “It means you’ve run out of time completely and have no right to be here. I’m afraid you leave us no choice.”

I stammered something that didn’t make an impression, and the officer continued: “Time Police regulations apply in this case. I’m terribly sorry, sir. I’m sure you know that time is of the essence here, if you allow me an appropriate pun.”

Time Police! So that’s what TP stands for, I realized, and then the man pointed his flashlight at my face once again and shot a bright beam into my eyes, and the world turned black.

Frank Roger Florimond De Cuyper, born in Ghent, Belgium, on March 30, 1957 (better known by the pseudonym Frank Roger), is a Flemish short story writer. His work has appeared in a growing number of languages, exceeding one thousand publications in more than forty languages.