The Guy Who Could Tell Time

THE GUY WHO COULD TELL TIME
MICKY MOUTH knew and understood time perfectly–-as well as many of its subtexts. He’d be with a group of friends--at a restaurant, let’s say--and somebody’d ask, "Oh, my god! I almost forgot; I’ve got to be somewhere! What time is it?"
Mick’d stare back and say, before anyone else could respond, "It’s a quarter to seven; where do you need to be?"
He wore no watch, there was no clock on the wall, and this type of thing happened all the time.
* * * * * * *
Mick liked to camp. On camping trips–-or just out hiking--one of his buddies would ask in passing if anyone knew the time. Mick’d shoot back with the answer; another person would check their watch, the reply would be confirmed, and they’d all stare at Mick in an odd way. This happened a lot.
After awhile, it became almost a game, a contest. In the middle of the day, someone’d ask him, "Mick, what time is it?" He’d pause, as if in thought--though he wasn’t in thought--and announce, "12:45." They’d look at their watches and shake their heads.
"He’s right," they’d say. "Quarter to one. Exactly."
Mick seemed to have a perfect understanding of time–-and the subtexts as well.
In public, in the city, out socially, people’d sometimes ask him other aspects of time: people’s ages. And he’d oblige. He knew exactly how old everyone was. "She’s 24," he’d say of a waitress whose service was exemplary. "He’s 47," he’d say about a bus driver. "Those kids over there–-14 and 17." "The infant in the stroller–-ten weeks." An elderly man who had just been run over by a car--DOA at the hospital--and whom they’d seen only from a distance: "75."
He was always right; he was never wrong.
People’d ask him to be more specific. And he’d reply, maybe at the super market this time, "That gentleman over there in the frozen food aisle, in the workshirt with the paint on his pants: He’s 53 years old, seven months, and 14 days."
His friends thought he was pulling their leg–-or just being outlandish--because no one could be that accurate. So once, one of Mick’s lovers–-let’s call her Lucy--called him on it. He-–Mick–-had said that a woman at another table in a restaurant was 33 years old, three months, and three days.
Lucy excused herself, got up from the table, walked over to the woman at the other table, and inquired as to her age. The woman was, quite naturally, taken aback by the question but, after a polite smile, replied, "33."
"No, I mean, when were you born? When’s your birthday? That guy over there says that you’re 33 years old, three months, and three days."
The woman, of course, thought it odd that someone–-a complete stranger-–would be so interested in the precise number of years and months and days she had been on the planet. But she complied, and then, together, she and Lucy figured out, from her birthday, exactly how old he was.
Sure enough, Mick had been right.
Mick began to enjoy the reaction of his friends. Before, he’d just been mildly amused by their interest and their questions, but now, because of their continued fascination, he’d sometimes put on a show. He’d be walking down the street and point to people on the street and rattle off their birthdays: July 16; November 3; August 25. Still, his friends were skeptical--more entertained than believing. How could anyone know the birthdays of complete strangers? The ages, Ok; a lot of people can guess other people’s ages, but the actual birthdays? No way! But Mick’d go right on, pointing and naming the days: March 21, February 29, July 4. Occasionally, one of Mick’s lovers’d ask one of the people Mick’d pointed out if their birthday was the day Mick had identified. Again, Mick’d be right. He was always right. Never wrong.
"How do you know this stuff?"
And he’d reply, "I don’t know. They just look like they’d been born on June 21, or December 25, or whatever. I don’t know. They just do. At first, I thought everyone could tell. But I guess that’s not so."
It was uncanny. Mick seemed to have a perfect understanding of time. The subtexts too. He began identifying where people were born: St. Louis; Los Angeles; Champaign, Illinois. "That person over there in the red pick-up truck: He immigrated seven years ago from Prague. The woman driving the truck: She’s not a citizen yet; they met in Seattle. She’s pregnant right now. The baby will be born in April, the last day of the month: April 30."
One day, Mick decided--on his own--to push the boundaries of his insights beyond the identification of mere birthdays or the time on a clock. He was after the big stuff now. He’d wake up in the morning, walk outside, look up into the sky, see the sun, and announce to people–-to total strangers passing on the street--that it was daytime.
At night, after the sun had gone down, he’d walk up to the people he’d see on the street and tell them that it was nighttime. He’d elaborate. He’d say, "Look! It’s dark. It’s nighttime. It’s all so clear. Can’t you see?"
He’d point to the moon: "Moon."
And after awhile people would begin to see and recognize that Mick’s sense of time was not really such an unusual thing after all, and that, really, anyone could do it.