Hours as People - A.M.

"God, it just drives me crazy, you know?" says One in the Morning.1

I nod as if I do, in fact, know.2

In the past few minutes, I've learned that there are quite a lot of things that drive him crazy. He's a bit of a complainer. I guess it comes from always being just short of a decent night's sleep and having to drag all the other hours in each day, and from the ulcers that never give him a moment's rest ("God, they just drive me crazy, you know?" – but I don't know, I've never had them), and the hair that he's losing, or the fact that the rest of it is a particularly ratty shade of almost grey. Maybe it's the suit, too. The suit is a grimy suit, and yellow. I wouldn't be very happy in such a suit.3

But then he tells me, "God, I'm just falling to pieces. This suit's all I got left of my dignity – was a gift from my grandfather. You gotta have something to hold on to, you know?"4

I definitely don't know why any loving grandparent would inflict that suit on someone.5

"Who was your grandfather?" I ask, as politely as I can manage.6

"Great man. Great man. Father Time himself. Kind of man you can look up to. You-"7

Yes.8

This time I know.9

*****10

Two is jonesing, and bad. He doesn't really seem to care.11

He has shakes like I've never seen them before, shakes that make me think, looking at him, that the fault-line's finally decided to do us in, and he's the only thing in the world standing still. But he just asks, in a voice as smooth as ice, "You got a smoke?"12

I don't smoke.13

So he nods and goes back to tap-tap-tapping his heels, bobbing up and down in place. That vengeful fault-line feeling comes back. It's odd, though. Somehow he honestly doesn't care. I guess what Two really is, then, is a come-down. A let-down. The thrill of the low, if there is one. He gives me a grin that's more than a little bit neurotic, but then he starts to sing, in that icy-cool voice, and it steadies things. The fault-line goes back to sleep. At least, it's asleep until I start to think about it truly waking up, and then I start to feel like he's the sane one, and maybe I'm going neurotic.14

*****15

Three sleeps. She is small, and so still that I nudge her slightly just to make sure that she's breathing.16

"Mumble," she mumbles, almost inaudibly, and burrows under the covers. I realize, with some surprise, that they are my covers, only now I suppose they've been hijacked. I have no idea how she got here. She has that little-sister sense about her, although I know she is the elder of the two of us, and I don't want to wake her. The night settles in quietly all around us, until the only thing I can hear is my own breathing. Three is almost rocklike in her stillness – almost. But there's too much softness around her edges, and there's a smile on her sleeping mouth. Not a rock, then. Just still, and peaceful.17

The whole city seems as if it's curled up beside her, wrapped in the same shroud of comfort.18

I curl up in my chair with a jacket around my shoulders, and for a little while, I, too, sleep.19

*****20

The room remains covered in silence.21

I am awake, straight-backed and sitting upright, and Four is there as well. Alert. Also awake. But she says nothing – only stares. Her eyes are two shades of blue away from violet, and they don't say anything either.22

I can't help wondering what mine are saying, if anything. Are they reciting these words in a language only she can hear? Are they spilling secrets like ink on a page? I find myself hoping that they are saying nothing, or, if they must say something, that they're telling a very good joke. I try to think of one, only to realize, sharply, that I have not blinked, as if the staring were a contest.23

What on earth are we playing for, then?24

Now that I've noticed it, my eyes start to water. If I had been flying, I'd plummet to the ground. She seems unfazed, as unreadable as ever. I'm afraid to look away. Peripheral vision is all I have to tell me about other details, like the fact that she's in some sort of evening gown – black, with maybe a hint of green.25

I can barely keep my eyes open. On a whim, I think of onions – and I think of them as hard as I can. The clock turns to 5:00, and with a laugh, warmer than I ever would have expected, she sneezes. And she blinks.26

*****27

Five smells like granite, a mix of dust and soda water, and he looks like it, too. Tall, clouded, but with little flecks of light. His smile is one of those flecks – it's a gentle thing, and slow, but clear as a bell. His hands are another, huge yet careful, flitting along the spines on my bookshelf. He pauses at one of the novels.28

"May I borrow this?" His voice is a polite, rumbling whisper.29

Looking up, I flash him a grin, and nod. The world blinks, and then we are sitting at an airplane terminal, he with the book on his lap, eagerly turning the pages, and I with my battered notebook in hand.30

There are no planes coming in, but he seems to be waiting for something. I feel as if I'm waiting, too.31

The hour waits along with us.32

*****33

"-and make sure those are three full shots of espresso!" Six calls cheerily after the waiter. I'm not really sure why the café is open this early, and the staff seems just as confused, but we are not the only customers, and the kitchen is already bustling with shouts, hissing pots, and a brassy, cooking roar.34

"I love mornings," says Six with a laugh. He has the sort of business suit and expensive haircut that usually put me in mind of successful CEOs with no one to worry about but themselves, only…he's nice. He really is. The problem, though, is his energy. He's beaming a smile with enough megawatts to make Hollywood blush and talking as if there's no tomorrow – and the coffee hasn't even arrived yet.35

I feel tired and slovenly just looking at him, but he doesn't seem to notice or mind.36

"Mornings like these, you just gotta love 'em," says Six as our drinks arrive, coffee blacker than pitch for him, and tea, scalding, for me. He sips at his coffee, which still has steam rising from it, but it does not seem to burn his lips. I think of the three full shots of espresso with both amusement and apprehension. Mostly amusement. He must be wearing off on me.37

"Good stuff," he says, with a pleased nod. "So, where were we? You wanted to know about One?"38

"Yes. That coat-" Six makes a face of mock horror, and I know he's seen it, too, "-did he really get it from Father Time? His grandfather?"39

"Yes and yes." If anything, the coffee seems to be making him a bit calmer. He runs a hand through his dark hair, though it doesn't need fixing, and lets out a low whistle. "Not exactly my style, yeah? But it was a gift. And he's grandfather to all of us."40

I nod, studying my tea. There are a few leaves in the bottom of it. They dance in stately circles, a slow waltz that I can't entirely comprehend.41

Six is standing, shrugging into his coat – black, to match his suit. "Give him my best, yeah? Tell him I say hi. I think he could use a little pick-me-up."42

He leaves a twenty on the table and a kiss, bird-like, on my cheek, and as he chases down a cab outside, I am tired again just from watching him. But the cup of tea is warm in my hand, and I feel as if, slowly, I am waking up.43

*****44

Seven takes the seat beside me on the bus, an older woman, with red hair graying at the temples. But her eyes, green and glowing, are young, and she slides easily, gracefully, into her seat.45

" 'morning, dear," she says.46

I smile in reply. "Good morning," I say, and I think, She must have been a dancer, once.47

"Oh, yes, honey. But that was years ago," she says, laughing. "Before the kids."48

In the next few minutes, with the bus rolling and tires squealing down he road, I learn all about her children, learn not to be surprised by her reading my thoughts (she tells me, smiling, that they're written all over my face), and I learn that she has more love for living creatures than anyone else I've ever met. She shows me photographs, pulled reverently from her pocket, of her family, the rest of the Mornings.49

We talk about movies. We people watch. I tell her my father's university stories, and a few of my own, and she giggles, laughter bringing out the youth in her eyes. When we reach my stop, she hugs me like a mother would, and waves.50

"Where are you going?" I ask, pausing just before I step out onto the pavement.51

"Work, dear. I've people to wake up."52

I stand on the sidewalk, waving, as the bus pulls away down the street.53

*****54

It is incredibly cold in the room. I recognize Eight from the pictures, though here he is stern and unsmiling. He has the same weary face, though, and the same horn-rimmed glasses. The same bowed shoulders. The same white, starched shirt.55

"It's an incredible responsibility, being the eldest," he rasps, then coughs. Though he is at most a few years older than me, he moves and speaks with the slowness of the very elderly. Sickness and worries have aged him, some imagined, some real.56

My teeth are chattering, and my breath hangs, clouded, in the icy air. "Do you think you could…t-turn the heater on?"57

Eight shoots a glare at me. "And have to pay bills for it? No! It's a crime, what they charge for utilities. These prices, I swear…an absolute crime. And I can't afford it. Have to keep saving. Always need to save more." He shakes his head, gritting his teeth. His lips are thin, almost white.58

"For what?" I fold my arms tightly across my chest, hands balled into fists to keep my fingers warm, wishing for a thicker jacket. Eight is not even shivering, but he moves to the tiny window as if there were ice in his joints, and his cough sounds as though crystals are rattling in his lungs.59

"For the others." The words are so soft that I barely hear them. He is staring out the window, at the city in the fog. "The money has to come from somewhere. And they need it." He puts one hand against the glass. I'm reminded uncomfortably of cages. As the light filters in through the small, dirt-streaked pane, it traces his profile. For a moment, I see a warmth inside of him. "Like I said-" the voice is quiet, sickly, "-it's an incredible responsibility, being the eldest."60

He is crying. Crying from love, and shame, and suffering.61

Something catches in my throat.62

I put my arms around him. The tears freeze on my collar and in my hair, and when they stop, he straightens. "I'll be alright."63

So I leave. Behind me, I hear another coughing fit take him.64

*****65

"You want me to what?"66

"Rob a bank," says Nine in the Morning, grinning. "Come on, please?"67

"No way," I tell him. "Not for a million dollars."68

"How about two million? They got a lotta cash in this bank." He winks conspiratorially. "It'll be fun. We'll be like Bonnie and Clyde!"69

I boggle at him. "They die at the end."70

Nine looks suddenly crestfallen – even the feather in his cap seems to droop a little. "Oh. Really?"71

"Lots of bullets. Very nasty. And I think we'd need a posse to begin with."72

He brightens. "I could find us a posse-"73

I make a gun with my thumb and index finger, and give him a quizzical look. He sighs.74

"…Nevermind."75

Nine is what I imagine a slightly older Peter Pan would look like if he had discovered the punk rock scene and simultaneously developed a penchant for scarves. He's wearing at least three of them, in a blinding array of colors, along with a leather vest and ripped jeans. And the hat, of course - green felt with a proud red feather. He also has several dozen tattoos, some of images, some of words – the words are in all sorts of languages, and they seem to be a mix of drinking songs (I recognize Wild Rover on his left bicep), philosophical passages, and nonsense. Nine is all about trying new things. He is about possibilities.76

"How about bungee jumping?" he asks, pulling another scarf from his pocket. He begins making it disappear into one hand and pulling it out of various places: his ear, a glass of water, the sleeve of the man snoring at the bar beside us.77

"I-"78

"Or I was thinking maybe we could try crocodile hunting."79

"Bungee jumping sounds fantastic," I tell him hastily.80

*****81

Ten is a fleeting hour. From the glimpses I've caught, he seems no older than twelve, perhaps, a small, dark boy with timid eyes. But it's hard to tell – the glimpses have all been brief.82

I stand in a massive, silent house. The walls are white and bare, the furniture covered with snowy sheets. The house is empty. Not derelict or run-down, but abandoned. Abandoned save for the two of us.83

I can hear footfalls in the living room, and I head towards them, treading softly over clean carpets, past covered tables and chairs. The sheets do not have a single mote of dust on them, yet the place feels as if it were forgotten long ago, as if we are its first visitors in an age.84

There is a quiet giggle behind me. Turning, I see a crouched, gleeful form dash out of the room. Just before he rounds the corner, his eyes meet mine. They are silver.85

But when I chase after him into the study, he is gone.86

And so we flit like happy phantoms in that huge, old house, darting room to room, our laughter brightening the air, mingling with the sunlight that trickles in through the shades. The house seems almost glad of the company.87

The hour, like the game of hide-and-seek, passes quickly.88

*****89

"Have you seen him? Have you? Have you?"90

Eleven is nearly jumping up and down in her excitement. She has an eagerness that Seven's picture ("She's nine years old, my youngest is – we're so very lucky to have her!") couldn't entirely capture, though she was wearing the same cheery grin in it, with one front tooth missing.91

"Eight?"92

"Yes!"93

I nod, and the grin becomes even more jubilant. She takes me by the hand, pulling me over to her desk. "Look! He sent me these."94

The wood of the desk could be green for all I know – it is invisible, every inch of its surface covered with piles of books. There are a few titles I recognize from childhood, others that I've seen more recently, and many more than are entirely new to me. Some are fantasy, some are sci-fi, some are philosophy, but most of them seem to be science textbooks. All of these are a bit worn and dog-eared, and when Eleven sees me looking at them, she picks one up, opening to a page that shows the human skeleton.95

"I'm going to be a doctor someday," she confides, still grinning, but there is a determination in her giddy voice that was never there before.96

"Why a doctor?" I ask, studying the picture.97

She hands me the book and picks up another one for herself. "So I can fix people."98

I look at her again, though she is absorbed in her reading now, small frame curled around the pages as if they were the whole world, her face alight with an eager intelligence, and a love of all things living that reminds me of her mother.99

I think of the costs of med school, and of her eldest brother, shivering and stern in his bare-bones apartment. It's clear that she idolizes him, and that he dotes upon her, too. Every book on the desk is a carefully chosen gift, and I think I know, now, what he meant when he said that his family needed the money. It never occurs to me to wonder whether or not she will make all his sacrifices worthwhile, because I already know that she will.100

She reminds me of hope.101

*****102

"Aren't you late?" a cross voice calls from the next row over in the lot.103

"Couldn't find your car," I pant, stumbling towards the truck after a good fifteen minutes of running circles around the parking lot.104

"Well, get your ass inside already," says Noon, hopping back into the driver's seat. "I'm melting." She closes the door behind her.105

I've barely climbed in on the passenger's side when she revs up the engine and steps on the gas. With a screech from the tires and a scream from a nearby pedestrian, we're out on the road in seconds, roaring past shop-fronts, buildings, and tourists, and I'm fumbling desperately for my seatbelt. Noon takes her wide-brimmed hat off, tossing it into the crowded back seat, and rolls the windows down. Even in the shade of the car, with air rushing in through the windows, she is sweating in her tank top and shorts. She has sunscreen lathered all over, and is squinting through a pair of mirrored aviators at the road ahead.106

"Where are we going?" I try to ask, but the words are lost in the roar of the wind.107

"What?" yells Noon. "I can't hear you!"108

"Where are we going?"109

"Somewhere cold!" she shouts. "Somewhere out of this goddamn heat!"110

We speed down the PCH, and as the inside of the truck cools, we close our windows, cranking up the AC, and begin to talk.111

"Seriously, how hard is it for you to find a red truck?" she asks, fiddling with the radio.112

"There were fifteen in that lot," I tell her. "Though none quite as beat-up as this one.113

She makes a face at me from behind the aviators. We laugh, and it dies off slowly as I settle back in my seat, trying not to look at the speedometer (it never seems to stop climbing), and she goes back to glaring at the sky through her shades.114

"Man, I hate this sun," she growls.115

The sun, as always, hovers directly overhead, and doesn't seem to fall behind us no matter how fast we travel.116

I peer out the window. "I think it's following us - resentment must not be mutual."117

"Ohhhh, it's mutual, alright." Her mouth twists. "He's just following us to screw with me."118

"Why on earth would the sun want to do that?"119

"…I shot a rocket at him once."120

This sounds like one of Nine's ideas, and I tell her as much. She chews her lower lip.121

"Well, it was."122

I give her a look.123

"I make bad decisions when I'm pissed – so sue me," she mutters.124

We drive the rest of the way in lazy, comfortable silence, though every so often she shakes her fist at the sky.125

*****