Free People Park by Pasha Malla

holes, and the clock had stopped. It had only two hands, was not official, its rotations were marked by minutes. So Sam stared at the clock and counted to sixty. The hands did not move. He counted again: nothing. Yet upon his own wrist his third watch still chipped away, seconds to minutes to hours . . .
    Sam listened: birds chirruped and the leafless branches of the poplars creaked in a tired wind and on Parkside West cars went by with an airy, breathy sound — but there was no grinding of gears, no clank of levers, no steady drone of engines or tick of meters or hiss of valves from underground. The earth didn’t vibrate and hum. The towerclock was still. Sam touched his scab and felt pain. This was real. He looked out over the common and said, Hello? But to whom. The park was empty. There was nobody there.
    STREET’S MILK & THINGS hadn’t changed since Sam was a kid: the sad clinking of the bells over the door as you entered, its owner the Polyp affixed to his stool behind the counter, everything furred with dust, you came out feeling grimy and damp. Near the door was a rack that held one yellowing dirty magazine and a poorly folded map, the scantily stocked shelves were organized by container type: boxes of cereal and detergent and nails, canned goods huddled together below — corn-in-a-can, catfood, motor oil, a labelless can, in black marker it asked: BEANS?
    In the back of the store was a sign that heralded: MR. ADEMUS’S THINGS . Upon these shelves Sam filed the parts to be collected by another worker who passed them along to another worker to maintain time’s machine. Now though the shelves were empty. Everything was in place. The work was done. There was nothing to do now but wait for Monday, the end. But what about the towerclock, locked, and the silence —
    Mr. Street the Polyp came waddling out from behind the counter. Hello, Mr. Ademus, once again. Old friend! As you can envisage for yourself, you’re a sellout. Success!
    A hand came at him: a bulge of meat that slumped into a wrist, an arm, up to a humped shoulder, a neck lost under a sludge of chins. Grinning lips, yellow teeth, from the mouth a bad smell. But first the hand.
    Grudgingly Sam took it: now Street had him, he squeezed. The fat man started ranting, nothing Sam wanted to hear — restribution this and historiographically that — all the while pumping Sam’s hand with his fat, hot hand. At last he pulled away grinning. Mr. Ademus!
    Hi, said Sam, Mr. Street, but what about time’s machine? It’s stopped or I can’t hear it okay. And it’s supposed to be Monday that the machine reverses and time turns back, the third hands I mean. And do you think it’s Raven Mr. Street? Who might stop the work?
    Pop shook his head sadly. Almost without refutation, he sighed. This charlating they’ve plotted upon our fair island, how could he not be balsamic of all your whoas?
    And so? Should we do something Mr. Street?
    Mr. Ademus, prehaps more work? More things , prehaps?
    But should we try to stop him Mr. Street?
    Unrefutably! He must — Pop looped an arm over Sam’s shoulders, placed his mouth to Sam’s ear, dropped his voice to a whisper — be stopped .
    Okay.
    Now, said Pop, clapping, Mr. Ademus, about you endowning me with new works.
    Sam told him no.
    Ah. So today you endown me only with shopping?
    Sam told him yes.
    Then beplease yourself and shop till you’ve dropped!
    From the freezer Sam took a stack of nuclear meals, put them on the counter, and waited for Pop to ring them in.
    Once again, Mr. Ademus, please consider these on my house. As grace for your things.
    Sam took his groceries, turned to leave.
    Until tomorrow, Mr. Ademus?
    If there even is a tomorrow okay, said Sam, and headed out the jingling door, home.

VI
    HE GRAND SALOON’S pent house was in the cathedral’s former belfry. On either side of the suite’s door stood the watchmen of B-Squad: the Summoner — Starx — and Olpert Bailie.
    Inside the room napped Raven, he