The Day Time Stopped
A Short Story by Anthony LeBron
Image by the Artist General | artistgeneral.com
A most peculiar turn of events began (as may presently be determined) roughly six months ago with Dr. Alfred McCale, Chief Surgeon at Cabrini Memorial Hospital in upper Manhattan, New York City. He was finishing up with what would turn out to be yet another successful surgical procedure when he suddenly stopped; stiff, as though frozen in place, he just stood silently and, with piercing eyes, stared openly before him. All those in immediate proximity were as deer caught in the headlight. One moment, his eyes were fixed questioningly on the instruments he held in his latex gloved hands, as though discovering them there for the first time. Next, his focus gradually shifted to the patient on the table, whose eyes were half-open, obviously not conscious due to the medication. Puzzled by all this he then slowly turned completely around to notice the two attending nurses, the anesthesiologist holding a tube with a valve at the end of it, and two assisting physicians. He was equally taken aback by their presence. He could not, for the life of him, recognize these people; nor did he have any idea where he was or why he was holding these things in his hands. Further, he recognized the absurdity of it all. That is, he knew, but really didn’t. He, then, turned again to look at the patient. He seemed to be staring at him for the first time. No words would form in Alfred’s head. He was now possessed by a most intense awareness he was in the wrong place-he, Alfred McCale, had no business being here-wherever this was. Again, he stared at these things in hands and could not fathom what they were or why he was holding them.
“Doctor?” he heard a rather concerned and trembling, concerned voice, “Are you alright?”
Doctor? Was he talking to me? I’m a doctor? Well, alright, then! I guess that explains everything. But, it didn’t, really. It only accounted for the attire all present were wearing. His eyes now shifted to the off-green gown he now wore, which had sprinkles of blood here and there on it; he also became aware he was wearing a surgical mask and began to have patches of remembrances of certain of the events which precipitated his arrival to where he now was. And it wasn’t as though he didn’t really know what actually predated this moment; it was more to do with his having somehow been robbed, so to speak, of many of the critically important and connecting moments of life. Partial
history, here, amounts to no history at all. Yes, there was this vague recollection of having attended medical school-one of the most respected in the country, it seemed, and graduating among top five…something about having completed his internship; but, that was some eons ago. His whole life preceding this was all a blur, apparently rushed through as though a lamb to slaughter without the opportunity to savor one single moment. He was acutely aware something was happening to him; what, precisely, he could not fathom. One thing he did note for sure: he had no sense of time. There was only this moment and he was most intensely aware of it, taking it in as with air. His entire being now seemed to be in possession of such clarity all he felt to do was to stand there and study carefully the others in the room and the situation at hand. He could sense they were afraid and understood why.
Detective Sergeant Arthur Ruiz stood behind the fucker up against the wall, glock barely resting at the level of his occiput at an upward forty-five degree angle, ready to blow his shit away. There were two uniforms, one standing to either side, glocks drawn; three plain clothes from his unit were also standing by, weapons at the ready. It had been quite a chase, but they finally got him. The other bag of shit was down the street with a bullet in him and being held down by at least two other uniforms. And now, time to read this fucker his rights or blow him away. Reading people’s rights had by now become such a pathetically useless procedure. He reached for a gun or knife or, well, whatever. Nobody saw a thing. An almost painfully long moment passed before those standing close by noticed something was wrong. Even the man up against the wall sensed something was up as he was now busy making lemonade and other foul smelling stuff in his pants.
As though coming to from a stupor, Detective Sergeant Arthur Ruiz found himself holding this thing in his hand. What’s more, his arm was extended toward the back of the head of some guy who was standing, hands behind his back about the waist, pressed up against this wall. What’s more, Arthur was holding this thing close this guy’s head. Straining to look a little closer for a clearer view, his eyes now opened wide with amazement- it was a gun. He could hardly believe it. Now, vague memories were coming to him of how he got to be where he was now. It was all as though a dream. He actually went to the police academy, excelled in hand-to-hand combat, scored high on tests and became a detective before long. The time didn’t matter. All of these things, he was certain, did happen. Yet, he hardly recognized or knew any of the people around him and felt far removed from this situation or what to do about it. What do we do about now, this moment? All he felt to do was just to stand there and study carefully what was before him.
“Hey, Art, you gonna read ‘im his rights or what?” he hears one of the plain clothes say, almost pleading.
Detective Sergeant Arthur Ruiz now took a few steps backwards, stopped and slowly lowered his gun-hand to his side. Eyes wide open and most intensely aware (an experience he does not recall ever having had before this moment), he stood silent. He sensed the others were afraid, including and, perhaps most especially, the foul smelling lemonade dude. Pity, he felt. There was no need. He wondered what the excitement was all about.
Carrie O’Malley. Sixteen. Exceptionally brilliant for her age, she now had college to look forward to, choosing psychoanalysis as her career. Having completed registration and buying the required books and other materials for her first semester two days before, she now stood before the small bed inside her room, eyes fixed in utter amazement at the articles she gathered on it- material she’d gathered in preparation for coming Monday and it seemed she did not recognize them. Her eyes now slowly shifted to her small book shelf against the wall next to the bed whereon, for all to see, were works by Freud, Jung, Reich, speeches by Malcolm X, works on contemporary history: all had suddenly been transformed into meaningless artifacts of a bygone era and she wondered how they made it into her room in the first place. She hardly recognized any of it. She now had hazy recollections of having been to book stores where she purchased certain of the materials; others had been given to her as gifts. It all seemed rather like a dream. She had no sense of time. What mattered-above all and foremost-was this moment; now. She began to feel out of place where she now found herself; an awareness that she did not belong here. And now there came the remembrances of how, at least, chronologically, she got here.
It had always been very real to her; fore, they would come to her time and again. She became very disappointed when, after having confided this with certain psychoanalysts and priests-people she thought would understand-were, instead, condescending. Was she adamantly out to live in delusion? They were never successful in convincing her she was not real. And, what was the awareness? As far as she could recall, she had, once upon a time, no body, no form whatsoever. In fact, she seemed to be joyously swimming down in some sort of matrix to, God knows where! She just was. The next moment, she was being held in someone’s arms with a man standing beside; it was dad; her eyes shifting up slightly to catch a glimpse of whose arms she was in: mom. She knew who they were.
Everything else was a blur; a sort of theatrics she’d learned to be a part of. She played her part, it would seem, quite well. No words in all this formed; only the awareness. The last she was ever this acutely aware, she was just a babe.
Gus Himmler. Yes, of that very lineage. But, it didn’t matter since by this time there had been a machination in place to re-establish that old crew in a different light. It now appears Adolph Hitler was sadly misunderstood; he was actually out to accomplish something wonderful for the world; but, the hand of greed brought him down. Such and more was being circulated by mainstream as well as alleged alternative outlets; yet, despite the fact there were now Jews who were awarded Honorary Aryan status (particularly those of great wealth), there was still some bit of objection. Again, it didn’t matter-at least, till now. There was now, indeed, trouble afoot. He stood beside his desk, both hands in his vest pockets, pondering with trepidation the material before him. Attached to the large brown envelope with the bold red, FOR YOUR EYES ONLY, was a small yellow stick-pad with Urgent!!!, scribbled on it. He had gone through all of the material over and over and, with each time, his worries increased. Time and again he had had heated discussions with colleagues regarding the subject of mind-control. Always he would insist brain manipulation or even brain control would be more appropriate terms. Sadly, his colleagues did not agree.
Gus had been with the CIA for over a decade ago before it was dissolved amid massive, public protest concerning revealed evidence of the agency having been accomplice to unspeakably cruel tortures as well as engaging in acts of genocide. Perhaps if the victims were mostly Arabs or the lesser breeds of South America and not the American general public, Gus reasoned, no one would mind. Indeed, he mused somewhat contemptuously with regard to the general public, that people are the same everywhere: always concerned solely with themselves. But the damage had already been done and the CIA had to be terminated-a word its operatives were well acquainted with since the agency’s inception. And so it was! And, in its place, the Intelligence Central Agency was formed; public outcry dissipated as assurances were made by the government this new agency would have a separate committee specifically appointed to closely monitor its activities, “in order,” the President said during a televised speech, “to prevent any future terrible recurrences from, like, re-occurring ever again.” And, with that, the President left for an extended-yet, long overdue-vacation in Tierra del Fuego.
Obviously, Gus surmised, we have a crack-head for a president. But, this was not of major concern. That unholy situation had been compromised many, many moons ago. That is, it no longer mattered who was president. We had now this new business to deal with; namely, the subject of the urgent memo and material atop his desk. Again, he recalls the numerous instances of heated exchanges over the subject of mind control. He, Gus Jay Gould Himmler, kept insisting it was the brain that was being affected, not the mind; that there were far too many variables pertaining to the mind to be able to accurately determine anything with any precision; ergo, you assholes haven’t a fuckin’ clue as to what you’s are talkin’ about!”
At this point, the bartender would always walk over to their section and say, “We’ve had a bit much, you think?”
Jeffrey Bonds. Once with the old boy’s network, yet, could never stand retirement; so, now back on the payroll as bartender to make sure these boys conducted themselves proper.
And so, he turned his attention back to the memo on his desk. He was, as it were, truly worried. Certain members of the population were actually coming to from their slumbers! Why!? Why? That was the most pressing question of all. So many bases were being covered in order to weaken the will of the population: prescription drugs; people still get glued to their television sets, which is more potent than drugs; illegal drugs are still made available; vaccines; the foodstuff distributed to them has hardly any value to them, nutrition-wise; in fact, that stuff is practically poison since most of it comes from animals that have been vaccinated or drugged at one point or another-so, you get vaccined or drugged whether or not you’ve signed on; fluoridation of the drinking water system-with sewage, a recent addendum; air now being commoditized. There are so many measures in place in order to prevent precisely that which we are now faced with. What has gone wrong?
None of those cited thus far have any common denominator. They had all been, in their own way, docile, obedient servants to the realm.
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