Decimal Clock

by David Van-Cauter

Original music by John Callaghan

Please wait and the soundtrack will start automatically (broadband recommended: approx. 1 minute)

The streetlights all go out

on the dot of six point zero one.

Soon people start their creeping,

each attaching decimal watches

in 2/4 time, to the ticking, ticking, ticking from the street

and bodies begin tumbling

one by one from rigid houses

as the pace of people rattles out from door to car to street.

The ticking, ticking turns into a pounding, pounding beat…

Albert the electrician kisses his wife goodbye

and springs to action like an open fuse,

his fingers buzzing on the frizzled air

and his head crackling in the clouds.

Today is a good day, he thinks –

a day for new ideas and sparks of inspiration.

By the time his solar car plugs into its space,

it is 6.292 – work lights up

like a thunderstorm, and he flies straight in.

Up the elevator, floor by floor,

as wires, bulbs and numbers energize his power pack,

and there, in his personal cube of walls and glass,

he starts to etch his life into the circuitry…

A square away, Jeremy the programmer hasn’t been to bed.

As the clock hit 5.142, his weary digits crept

slowly down the clacking keys,

his head drooping by degrees,

till the glasses fell defeated from his face,

the numbers spinning in his head.

Now he wakes with a start at 6.333

and sees the rows of ones and zeros –

his static fingers swarmed across the screen as he slept.

Undo, undo, he thinks, swipes his hand

and knocks his cold coffee flying over the keys.

Crackles and sparks invade the air –

“Shit! Shit!” he spits, then looks to check that no-one else is in.

6.4 – too early for the boss – he sighs

and goes in search of squares of paper towel to soak up the numbers.

One by one the keys fizz – his work’s cut into him

as he jabs and swears to the decimal clock

that stutters on the wall like an answer phone.

Pick up! Pick up! His brain reacts

as the tears in his bloodshot eyes begin to form.

Another day, another subroutine,

another string to tie in knots

to the sound of beating from the street…

On the floor below, at 6.411, Emily starts her morning rounds.

0.2 per cubic metre, she’s allowed.

She sweeps and sighs, sweeps and sighs.

The palette of her grey dustpan

absorbs the colours of the day before

and the brush paints shapes of clean lines,

glistening in the dew of disinfectant.

She sweeps and sighs, sweeps and sighs,

switches buckets, wipes away footprints

and the grime of tilted cups.

Her mop scratches at surfaces

to the music that she’s heard a hundred times before –

the sound of beating from the street…

George at the call centre sits to start

at exactly 6.5am.

His headphones neatly attached, the mike touching his lips,

he flicks a switch to answer the blinking light –

the first blip in the queue.

The script on his screen flashes into life,

but he knows it in his head:

“Good morning. You are through to central systems.

Please give me your citizen number, postal code,

first line of your address, telephone and email,

after the bleep…”

Another confused customer rattles off a list, point by point.

He smiles as the woman gets the 14^th digit wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts. “Please start again.”

He taps his nails in time to her:

t-t-t-two, th-th-th-three,

watching the telephone time stack up – he’s working on commission.

Someone once told him – but he didn’t buy it –

that these lines used to cost: zero point zero

But today is a good day, so after 0.1 he chimes in with

“Listen, Mrs Bell, I think by now

I’ve heard more numbers than I need.

How can we service you?

An electrician? Fridge on fire?

We’ll have one there in 0.5.

What was your home number again?”

He smiles – tap, tap, tap, tap

to the sound of footsteps from the street…

The beat for Leonard starts at 6.6.

He strolls along the pavement, ticking off

the numbers of stationary cars.

He walks and ticks, walks and ticks,

occasionally stopping for an “oh dear me”

as he spots repeat offenders for his list.

He checks a flashing meter, thinks

“In nought point zero five, that yellow car is mine,”

gets out his keypad, starts to type.

The second that the time is up, his ticket slips under the wiper –

that’ll teach him – too much waiting time –

got to keep on ticking –

and he skips on quickly down the street…

Albert gets the call at 6.659.

“Mrs Bell, 4257, 19^th Street,”

George spits into his cellphone.

Albert springs to life, toolbox in hand, and sprints to the moving door.

“Beep beep” the elevator says, and down he falls,

watching his clock tick onto 6.666.

The lift shudders, stutters – he’s used to this.

It’s time to randomise – time to go.

The sound hits suddenly.

Emily’s bucket clatters

as she staggers, reels, holds onto a pole

that keeps the staircase up – her head spins

and her breath is quick and sharp.

Jeremy dives for cover in a pile of plastic cups.

But no support – he falls to the polished floor,

swears again, scrabbles for a nearby chair

and lifts himself to safety.

He hates the time to randomise – he likes to be himself.

He’ll just sit here till 6.7, then he’ll go and shave.

A good point three till the boss arrives, he sighs,

and lets his eyelids droop

to the sound of sheep bleating in the street…

George gets quite a buzz from 6.666.

Plugged in, he feels at one with every byte

that screams into his ears.

A community man, he thinks, and now he’s wired

to channel calls straight through his head.

A good day, now his fix is realised,

and he hurls himself into his work,

the smile of achievement frozen on his face.

“Good morning” he begins,

and starts to feed on the voices, licks his lips…

The lift doors open – Albert staggers to the street.

His eyes are red, his shirt in tatters

and his briefcase scattering onto the pavement.
The time to randomise has burnt his tie

and he leans to pick his detail up,

tottering and smoking like a light bulb.

Leonard sees the flash and runs across the street:

“Can I help you, sir?”

He picks up papers, passes them.

“You look a little fused,” he quips.

Albert thanks him, limps towards his bubble car.

Leonard smiles, thinks “But for the grace of God…”

His head is clear, and off he taps,

deciding that the time he spends

on walking and observing, breathing in and breathing out,

pays off in peace of mind.

He takes his ticket book and writes it down,

taps and sighs, taps and sighs.

Emily swishes up the stairs

past newly-fractured lumps of light.

She reassembles parts of lives

that briefly raced before her eyes

and mixes them together,

forming narratives from snapshots.

These shadows she has seen

are glimpses of a world too grubby

for an infinite amount of mops –

how can she clean them all?

At Jeremy’s desk, she starts to wipe. Whole viruses vanish.

She steps over the sleeping boy,

and thinks of Leonard pacing on the street,

slowing to a crawl as the decimal clock creeps on towards the hour.

She thinks of George, who, in his next official break,

will burst out, buzzing, bounding to his yellow car,

the one where Leonard placed his ticket.

George will scream.

And across town, Emily decrees, Albert puts the fridge fire out

and Mrs Bell is reconnected.

Albert knows his calling - he dodges random debris every day,

and if he can, he puts it back where it belongs.

Emily draws her dustbag strings, closes her eyes,

breathing in and breathing out

in time to the seconds stretching.

The clock strikes seven point zero zero zero zero

and for that single moment

she can sigh, and smile,

timeless.

An animated DVD of this poem is available - for details email David here.

For more poems, see his main page and the PID Wiki.