Any second now

I am telling you – for there is no harm now in my telling, surely – I acquired the Snap from the man called T who used to run a junk cart down by the old family law building. I say “acquired” here when what I mean is “purchased.” The cart is gone now, and T with it, it seems.

I had heard things, as one does, and one day I said to him, “I’d like to buy a piece of time, please.”

T said, “You want to buy a timepiece?” He reached for the wristwatches.

I said, “No. A piece of time. A Snap, please.”

The apparatus for the Snap itself was an awful thing, like a guitar pedal, an alarm clock, and the bones of an umbrella, all connected by a series of tubes. It came without instructions.

I could only afford five seconds.

Acquiring the Snap was a simple thing. Finding the right five seconds for its use was hard. Given my options, I chose, eventually and out of an abundance of caution, an evacuated downtown Houston. During the next hurricane. Right after the power went out.

No people, no cameras, nothing to miss, you see? Only darkness and howling wind and rain and five… four… three… two… one… and then the same howl again, the same water drops again, and five… four… three… two… one…

It was a loop. Everything but me was.

I was in the Snap.

That was twelve years ago.

Later on, I stored the entrance to the Snap, if you must know and there’s no reason why you would, in the back of a clothes closet, and I go there still. Mostly to sleep, it is true (for I am older now and find sleep more to my liking than nearly anything I know), but also to read, to think, and to explore.

I spent a week there the other night, staring out from the forty-second floor of the King & Spalding offices, mostly. Listening to the hurricane and watching the same lightning flash out on the horizon every five seconds.

Five… four… three… two… one…

But something was wrong. I, who am without complaints, pathologically even, felt something was wrong in my private utopia, and I say “felt” here when what I mean is “heard.”

It was like a jazz piece, normally. The thunder being the bass. The rain the drums. The wind was the piano. These constituted the foundation to the piece, repeating every five seconds without fail. Endlessly. But now an additional instrument had made itself known, like a tenor sax, perhaps, and it was improvising freely over this foundation. The new sound was not looping.

It seemed something had, impossibly really, come loose in the Snap.  

Five… four… three… two… one…

I stood up and I was shaking. I tilted my head and turned to determine the direction and the nature of this new sound. When I said, “Hello-o-o-o?” my voice cracked and I sounded neither confident nor authoritative.

Five… four… three… two… one…

There was a knock at the door.