21st Century Bogatyr: Out Of Time

by Zvi Baranoff

"And te tide and te time þat tu iboren were, schal beon iblescet." St. Marher, 1225

"Time and tide wait for no man." Geoffrey Chaucer

"Time is on my side." Rolling Stones

This is Part Four in a fictional work in progress. Links to the rest are at the bottom of this page.

"Follow me," she said and just like that I am sitting in a breakfast nook with a mug of aromatic coffee in my hands. Me, in my stocking feet and a twenty-something redhead named Maria across from me wearing my boots. The coffee was good. In fact, the best that I have had in many years and possibly decades.

Maria spoke with a lovely accent that blended something like a New York Puerto Rican with a rolling Texas drawl and a Canadian or North Dakota influence, if you can imagine such. She spoke the local patois. There was a healthy aspect of Spanglish to it all, so, all told, it is not that different from what's spoken throughout North America and we could mostly understand each other.

Where we seemed to lose each other involved understanding of time and chronology. For her, time seemed to be divided into Now and Not Now. Measurement of time seemed foreign and incomprehensible.

So, what I gleaned as the coffee took effect is all a bit hodgepodge. Evidently, while searching for barbecue, I wandered into the middle of some sort of border skirmish.

I got hit by a sonic weapon and, according to Maria, I was heaped on the sidewalk with my hands around my huevos, trying to keep them from being scrambled. According to Maria, she took pity on my sorry ass and carried me to "safety". She also seemed to find it all somewhat humorous or at least entertaining.

Also, according to Maria, if she had left me "out there" I would have been killed by wolves and eaten by vultures, or perhaps vampires or werewolves or police/thieves or something like that.

While I was on the sidewalk facing imminent destruction, I was in a disputed sector of the City of Chicago. Now, I am in some sort of independent or autonomous region commonly called the "Zone" or the "Ozone". Evidently, it has no official name and no clearly defined borders, it is under the authority of no government, it has no laws and exists outside of time.

Maria could not tell me what day it was nor could she tell me how long I had been unconscious. The only answer she had to that question was the odd phrase, "some-some" which was accompanied by a slight waving of both hands.

After falling repeatedly into the Möbius Loop of space and time logic with no hope for mutual comprehension, she warmly suggested that I meet "Mi Abuelo" who might understand what I am talking about or could explain the obvious things about the world around us that I just couldn't seem to grasp. In "some-some" after the clinic, we might stop by and see, if I didn't have any more pressing engagements.

She told me that a Medico from the International Red Crescent had checked up on me when I was vegetative. When? "Some-some." The medic suggested that I visit the clinic before I move on with whatever it was I was doing "out there".

As far as my stuff goes, Maria explained in much detail the Laws of Salvage which, according to her, assured her a fair and reasonable reward for saving something of value and she claimed that my life was certainly worth more than my few possessions and some illegal currency. She also claimed certain rights concerning flotsam and jetsam under the Principle of Finder's Keepers. I was running numbers through my head, trying to figure the Black Market exchange rate of the various contraband currencies that I was carrying as well as what market value one could reasonably assign to my life and if I could present a tangible argument in favor of getting some of that money back.

Anyway, within her reasoning, she explained away my cash, as well as the pea shooter and holster. As far as the shoes she was wearing, she most politely and without a hint of irony, insisted that I was not wearing them when she found me and that I entered the Zone in my stocking feet. Why so, she did not know. She assured me that my jacket, hat and scarf were in a locker and that she had a nice pair of shoes that she would give me as a gift, because she liked me.

Even after coffee, I still felt pretty shaky and at a real disadvantage in whatever card game this was, but at least I didn't sense any immediate obvious threat or imminent danger. After a second cup of coffee and some sort of muffin, I almost felt trust, or something akin to it.

Where were we? It was a High School at one time and the cot was in the old locker room. The waterfalls that I dreamed were showers in the next room. The building served as some sort of community center and public bathhouse.

Maria offered me a clean towel as well as a change of clothes and a pair of shoes. I did not say no. Afterwards, she offered to guide me to the Red Crescent.

She handed me a small, colorful, hand crafted shoulder bag. Inside was a mug, some sort of filter and a pouch containing enough well grounded espresso for a half dozen cups. A gift, I suppose. Doesn't really make up for the boots, I think.

A visit to the clinic did seem prudent, considering that I pretty much felt like something that the dog threw up, even after the bath. I probably looked like that as well, but at least I probably didn't smell like that anymore.

We set out for the Clinic to see the Medico. This was also my first walkabout in the Zone. We exited the building at what must have been "street level" at one time. We faced a rough pathway through dense trees to the left and a covered and paved sidewalk leading to a greenhouse to the right. My guide looked to the left and then gave me the quick once over and the hairy eyeball. She then pointed to the right with her chin. I get the feeling that decision was made based on my age and relative frailty. Of course, I feel some combination of resentment and gratitude.

There is an interconnected network of greenhouses that serve as a public walkway. Outside of the greenhouses, the Zone shared a parallel weather to the Windy City, but inside the greenhouses it was comfortably above freezing. At intervals of what had once been blocks, there usually seemed to be a passageway to the outdoors. At some points, the greenhouses would branch off. All along the paths, but particularly by the entrances and junctures there were comfortable public benches.

At most of these rest stops there is a teahouse or cafe, if we are to use those terms loosely. What you have is sheltered space with a counter and a wall unit that dispenses boiling water. Surrounding each of these is an herb garden, primarily various mints. Everyone carries their own cups. I had consumed half of that coffee on the way to the clinic and was beginning to contemplate the upsides of peppermint.

There is public art everywhere. Throughout the greenhouses there are food bearing plants, predominantly fruit bushes. Drip lines irrigate the plants and I would assume that is automated, but I do not know. They seem to be healthy and grow well without any sort of organized maintenance. No one is weeding, but an occasional weed is pulled.

No one that I see in the Zone seems to be in a hurry to do anything or be anywhere. All meetings seem to be spontaneous and unplanned. Parties, concerts, theatrical performances, romantic encounters, dinners and breakfasts all happened with no obvious planning and no attachment to calendar or clock.

There is virtually no signage of authority or enterprise throughout the Zone. No anti litter signs or warnings to pick up after your dog. No solicitations or offers of vacation rentals or massages or drugs and beer for sale or robotic brothels. I didn't identify anything that could remotely be considered commercial. No stores, bars, restaurants, factories or markets. There were no visible means of support.

The professional and clearly emblematic facade of the clinic stood in dramatic contrast to pretty much everything else in the Zone. It bore the International Red Crescent logo as well as that of the United Nations. The clinic was professionally staffed and well outfitted.

Maria pointed to the doorway and told me that she would wait for me there. She then leaned herself against the only prohibitive sign I had seen throughout the Zone. The United Nations had posted a very serious warning in a dozen or more languages prohibiting smoking. There she chain smoked, while I went looking for the Doctor.

The UN Doc checked all my vitals and suggested that opium was good for extreme pain and if I felt bad or lonely, I could come back. The Doc suggested that I rest "some-some". How long is that? The Doc seemed as confused as Maria to that sort of question.

Rest, however, did seem like a good idea. Maria told me that I could stay as long as I wanted as her guest. I figured that I had paid for about three or four years of room and board with the greenbacks from the money belt - if the accommodations and service were above average - and I really did not expect to get my money's worth out of this, even considering the value of saving my life.

I did expect to regain my stamina - hopefully soon - and resume my travels in "some-some" as the locals would say, because "out there" I had expenses and responsibilities and a car with a stash of contraband and now I had to make up for the losses as well. I had no interest in staying in this Shangri La or Brigadoon or Neverland or whatever the fuck this place was any longer than necessary. Time may have stopped here but "out there" the clocks kept ticking.

This had to do for now and I suppose it could have been far worse. At least I was not killed by wolves and eaten by vultures. Not yet.

We left the clinic, walking out of doors and fully exposed to the Lake Effect winds. It would have been a pleasant walk but for the wind and the cold and the cold wind and the windy cold.

Fortunately, we did not plow on far like this before we were standing on a covered porch of a well built cottage. Maria called out "Abuelo, Mi Abuelo" as she turned the knob on the door and we let ourselves into a toasty and comfortable room. Every wall was lined with shelves and every inch of self space was filled with books.

I don't know when was the last time I had seen so many books in one place. Books have been an anachronism for a long time. Every book deemed legitimate has been digitized and having physical books is ostentatious and indiscreet. While it is not uncommon to have one or two or a half dozen books in one's possession - and one didn't usually face much trouble for possession of a few books - they are generally kept secured and out of sight. You know, at least stashed under the bed if not hidden in the floorboards.

Of course, that is in the United States of America which is a country with laws and customs. This is the Zone, and evidently there are other sets of norms here.

While we entered from the front of the building, a tall elderly fellow with shoulder length gray hair came in from an adjacent greenhouse. "You are right on time!" he said in a strong and clear Georgia drawl, with a toothy smile and with ironic and humorous intent. He gave me a nod and my guide a glancing hug and like that we were invited to lunch.

A pot of some sort of stew or goulash had been cooking on the stove and indeed our timing seemed to be quite good. The old man also offered me the use of a spare bedroom for "some-some" and Maria told me she would be back "some-some" and quietly slipped away and like that my accommodations went from the youth hostel level to something more akin to a very decent bed and breakfast in some parallel universe or mirror world.

It was a rare occasion for me to sit and talk with anyone even close to my age and even more rare to be with someone that appears to be older than myself. We were close enough in age however to share a sense of time and we had an unusual opportunity to compare notes or share observations.

We were too close in age for me to call this man Abuelo, although he tells me that most people call him that. Others call him Zayde and some call him Pops. I asked him what his birth name was and, without hesitation he says "Charles Ulysses Farley, but you don't need to be formal."

Chuck U. Farley, indeed. I might even like this guy. When he pulled out his humidor with the Cuban cigars and a well aged bottle of Kentucky whiskey as well, he was definitely making a good impression.

Besides the quality hooch and the first real tobacco that I've seen for at least thirty years, Charles, as I chose to call him, was writing a history of the Zone and he was very pleased to speak about history with someone that believes in time, because writing a chronological telling for those that cannot conceive of chronology is a complicated matter. So, he has been thinking about time a lot lately and liked talking about it. If I am going to hole up here anyway, I think, at least it might be intellectually stimulating.

I was glad to be free of the guttersnipe in my boots for the time being, although we still had unsettled matters between us. Time resolves all and I needed the time for my mind and body to heal from the attack, even if it was in a place without clocks. And "some-some" turned out to be early every morning to check on the old men to make sure they hadn't died in their sleep and to make them go for a walk and eat something healthy. And in spite of the local customs of time denial, this is how time passed until I recuperated.

Links to the earlier posted parts of this story, Chapters 1 - 26.

Part 1: Grace and Mercy If Luck Holds

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/05/grace-and-mercy-if-luck-holds.html?m=1

Part 2: Everything Was Fine Until It All Went Sideways

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/everything-was-fine-until-it-all-went.html

Part 3: I Blink In & Out and Awakened In the Zone

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/i-blink-in-out-and-awakened-in-zone.html

Part 4: Out Of Time

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/out-of-time.html

Part 5: Even Without Clocks

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/even-without-clocks.html

Part 6: Cerveza & Barbecue Before I Go