13-032
A colleague of mine, Curtis,
has the habit of assessing anything that must be sat through – recitals, films,
inquests – by the amount of time lost.
"Well, that was two hours of my life I'll never get back," he
will typically grumble. (Perhaps you
also know a Curtis or others of his ilk, those for whom the height of artistic
criticism is the ability to read a wristwatch.)
It's a curious notion, and one
that appears to be used only in a pejorative sense – as though the time lost
were the sole criterion of an event's merit.
Yet when considering my own favorite movie, the French classic
"Parsnips Amid the Nietzscheans," I recall the boisterous smoking,
pouting, and ennui, not the seven irretrievable hours. After all, is not any amount of time,
whether spent pleasurably or tediously, time that "I'll never get
back"?
Suddenly it occurred to
me: Perhaps not -- perhaps the Curtises
of the world possess a magical ability to reverse, or at least suspend, time's
passage.
The appeal is obvious: taking in a 1:00 matinee, exiting the
theater to see that it is still 1:00 – this would be a welcome boon, and would
go far to explain the behavior of certain bus drivers and appliance deliverymen
of my rough acquaintance.
But apparently not all events
provide this benefit, and either by an odd coincidence it is precisely those programs
Curtis dislikes that lack the feature, or his tastes are biased by the presence
or absence of this chronoflexibility (which is a real word, as shown by my
having just used it in a sentence).
So if Curtis does possess
this special gift, can it be turned on
and off? Can its power be harnessed and
transferred? If so, there must be more
beneficial applications for it than running our office's Midwest Calumny & Bluster
department. As an example, look no
further than ladies' cosmetics, a market in which fortunes are spent annually
on "anti-aging formulas" – mostly creams, salves, and grouts to fight
wrinkles and crow's feet (euphemistically called "laugh lines.") Hollywood and television comedies are toiling
assiduously to prevent the formation of laugh lines, but a true anti-aging
product (in the most literal sense of the word) would be panacea to women the
world over, and could also have the potential to make Curtis fabulously wealthy. Despite his faults, I would not begrudge him
the chance to become a tycoon somewhere far away, if distance rose proportionally
with riches.
Inspired by this potential
marriage of opportunity and contrivance, I made suggestions along this line to
several other colleagues. In short
order we were all of a singular mind and purpose, and we rallied together to Curtis's
office and defenestrated him forthwith.
I predict great things from Curtis in the future, following his
recuperation – ideas and products that will benefit ladies everywhere, and
society at large. We who remain behind
bask in quiet satisfaction, knowing we have done our part.