Right Outside the Window

So it was decided that in order to attract qualified candidates, an advertisement would be placed in the classified section of the newspaper. And in something called “Craigslist” in certain time zones. In any case, the advertisements specified that qualified candidates should drop off their printed resumes at exactly 9am. No sooner and no later.

Three-hundred and twelve applicants managed to get their resumes in the box within the allotted sixty seconds. Those, and the ones submitted right outside the window, either a little bit early or a little bit late, were all gathered up into a special pile. Two staff members went through those resumes one by one and fed them directly into the shredder. Those candidates were of no interest whatsoever to The Temp Agency.

One poor guy, who looked like he had slept in his cheap suit, had accidentally come a day early. They kept his resume along with those who came a day late. Not being particularly attached to the flow of time can often be a deficit, but for Temp Agents its a requirement. Thus the exacting recruitment protocols.

While one candidate may have responded to an advertisement placed in a newspaper in 1868 and another in 1936 and yet another in 1974, they all met together in the office of The Poet. From The Poet’s point of view it was 1892. He had been tasked with protecting the timeline from the ravages of The Wizard and his like. That’s why he had advertised across the time zones for people who were up for the rigors of the mission. They were teachers, artists, writers and musicians. Those were people who could readily adapt to different time zones because of their ability to connect new ideas together quickly.

“I have gathered you here,” the poet said with grave, but dulcet tones “to secure your help on a mission upon which rests no less than the survival of the human race as we know it.”

“When you say ‘the human race as we know it,’” the teacher from 2020 said, “do you mean like how it can be at its best or, like, how it actually is most of the time. I mean, like, what are we fighting for?”

“Yeah,” the macrame teacher from 1974 said. “Who are we fighting for? The people or the man?” The Poet nodded gravely and made a placating motion with his hands.

“Our friends. Our coworkers. Our families. Everyone and everything we know and love. It is no exaggeration.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It has already begun, I fear. What year are you from?” The Poet asked.

“2020.”

“Has the plague begun? That which separates people from one another, sometimes irretrievably?”

“What? You mean CoronaVirus?”

“No. They look like tiny oscilloscopes. Sim phones?”

“Oh, you mean cell phones?”

“Yes! Who is your president?”

“Donald Trump.”

“Oh my God,” The Poet moaned, “it’s worse than we thought. Edison has wrought the darkest of all possible times.”