Garrett Berberich
A man is walking along a gravel road near the top of a tall, wooded hill. Evening is falling, and sunlight dances with green, stretching tall, guiding the way ahead. The road bends along the hillside over a small, square house nestled into the slope below. A chimney puffs away above an elaborate wooden deck overlooking a yawning field of grass and hay. A meadow, beyond.
The man stops and takes in the view — a charming home, a mystical stretch of light-splashed splendor, a breeze. Everything is quiet; the road is empty.
That’s when he sees him, a stoic figure standing upright along the rail of the deck. He’s holding a stopwatch and wearing a conductor’s cap. His royal blue coat is buttoned to the neck. A clipboard rests on the railing; its pages flap in wind.
“You there,” he calls up to the man, barely moving his head.
“Hello,” says the man in the gravel road, offering a friendly wave.
“That’s five.” The man in the cap points up at the man.
The man in the road checks his watch. “I believe you are mistaken. It is 7 pm.”
The man below raps his clipboard on the railing once like a snare drum. “Five minutes. What do you offer for compensation?”
“Sorry, compensation, you say?”
“I have timed you.” He places his pipe on the railing and holds out his stopwatch in a formal motion. “It’s all right here.”
“You have timed me?”
The man nods and points to a sign above the doorway to the home:
SMILE! You are currently in a Private View Zone and are being Timed.
Taking in views in this Zone will require compensation
after the 90-second mark.
“You have taken in this view for five minutes. I require compensation.” The man below looks up at the man in the gravel road, his eyebrows raised.
The man in the road toes the dirt softly. “Sir, how would I know where this Private View Zone, as you call it, begins, and where it ends? For all I know, I could have been outside the Zone.”
“Wrong. If you are within eyesight of the sign, you are in the Zone. This is well-known.”
The man in the road nods and scratches his neck. “How am I to know you started timing me at the right time?”
A thin, drawling voice comes from around the corner of the house. “I confirm it.” A man wearing flannel under denim suspenders appears.
“And who are you?”
“I confirm the timing here. I watched it all and can say that the timing of you in this Private View Zone is correct.”
The man in the road stares at his feet, scratching his chin. “You can say?”
“I do say. Do.”
“Am I just to take your word for it?”
“Yessir.” The man in flannel nods rapidly.
“Who hired you?”
“Nobody.”
The man in the road chuckles. “Well, if that’s the case, why shou—”
“-enough!” The man in the conductor’s cap puts up his hand and begins climbing a rickety set of stairs to the road. He moves slowly, his hand steady on the railing. “We could blather on all day. The fact is, I have timed you, and five minutes has been confirmed. Doubts only get you so far in the shadow of truth. Now, what do you propose as compensation?”
The man in the road sighs. “Well then, so be it. That’s four.”
Now at road level, the man in the conductor’s cap scoffs. “Wrong! It’s five. I’ve been saying it’s five. It’s always been five. Now how will you compens—”
“That’s four minutes of conversation.” The man in the gravel road pulls out a stopwatch and a clipboard.
The man in the cap steps back, his eyes widening. “You have timed me?”
The man in the gravel road opens his coat to reveal a shirt on which the following words are printed:
SMILE! This man is a Private Conversation Provider.
If you are speaking with him, you are being Timed.
Conversations will require compensation after the 60-second mark.
The man in the conductor’s cap lets out a huff, a sputter, a staggered guffaw. “This is an outrage! In no way was that message displayed clearly. You!” He twists towards the man in flannel. “Do you not agree?”
The man in flannel raises both hands. “I had better not speak any more with that man.”
“Ah yes!” says the man in the conductor’s hat, turning back to the man in the road. “If I owe you compensation, so does he!” He points over his shoulder with his thumb at the man in flannel, who is slinking back around the corner of the house.
The man in the gravel road furrows a brow and refers to his clipboard. He flips a page and scratches his chin. “An interesting notion, but that man is in the clear. His time came in at forty seconds of conversation — twenty seconds below the compensation threshold.”
The man in the conductor’s hat sighs, then raises an arm. “But your shirt — how was I to know it was there beneath your coat?”
“You were within eyesight of the shirt. Over the last four minutes, my coat flapped open in the breeze many times. Many times indeed.”
“Well then fine,” says the man in the cap. “What shall we do? Are we even? Your conversation for my view?”
“What’s in a view?”
“What’s in a conversation?”
They nod and are pondering these questions when an orange sedan veers around the corner and screeches to a halt, spinning dirt. Its tinted window rolls down to reveal the face of a man in a top hat and a beard.
He tips his cap politely. “Sirs! That’s twenty-four and three, respectively. You have been timed.”
The men click their timers and respond in unison. “For what?!”
Garrett Berberich is a writer from Baltimore, Maryland by way of Schenectady, New York. His work has been published in JAKE, Idle Ink, Roi Faineant Press, and Flash Fiction Magazine. Reach him at www.garrettberberich.com or on Twitter at @gberberich.
Featured Photo by Alvaro Matzumura (Pexels)
