Everybody Gets One Minute

“I’m going to be late again,” I whisper to myself, crossing the road at 42nd and 3rd. How many times do I need to be fifteen minutes late before it’s my new start time?

The familiar scent of broiled hot dogs smacks me across the nose, beating out the morning traffic fumes. Did I have time to chat to Raul? What’s another two minutes?

“Morning Raul.” 

“Buenos días, my dearest Helen. The usual?” he asks, brushing his hands on his apron.

Maybe these dogs covered in Raul’s signature sauce is one of the reasons I’m always late. “Yeah why not. How did Francesca’s recital go?”

“Wonderfully. She didn’t miss a note.” Raul hands me a nitrate injected tube smothered in sauce and relish.

“You must be so proud,” I say, grabbing my third or eighth hot dog of the week.

“Of course, she puts in so much effort, it’s hard not to be proud,” he says. Raul pauses, glancing towards the sun. “Does the sky look different to you, Helen?”

“Um.” I follow his gaze. “Not particularly.”

“Ever get the feeling the heavens above are going to fall down on you?”

“You OK, Raul?” I ask, heart full of genuine concern. “Today's going to be another day in a long line of days. All the same, we just get a little older.” I want to clarify but my smart watch is buzzing. I look down at it. “Sorry Raul, I’m already very late to work.”

“Just another day then. See you tomorrow, Helen.” 

It’s his fault I’m late.

What’s my excuse this time? I wonder, taking my first bite. As the salty juices bless my tongue, my watch buzzes again. I produce a dumb smirk: it’s another video from Sam. Probably a clip of someone embarrassing or injuring themselves in unrepairable ways. 

I continue my walk down 42nd to the office, New York’s skyscrapers casting long shadows in the early morning. I pull my phone out of my pocket with one hand, cradling my dog in the other. My thumb is covered in mustard but my phone still recognises the ridges and valleys that make the print my own. I tap the notification and a video of a young man wearing a helmet appears. The strap is loose around his chin and it unclasps as he spikes the camera. “My name is Thad and this is the manhole disappearing act.” Without skipping a beat, he sprints down a deserted street towards a roped off segment in the pavement. The camera switches to another view near some open sewers. One of Thad’s feet meets the void of the pit and he starts to fall. The video freezes just as his chin is about to kiss the concrete lips of the manhole. I hate it when they do this. I want to see carnage. 

Wait. 

I stopped too. 

I glance up from my phone. No one around me is moving, and I can’t move my head. Oh God, did I have an aneurysm? My legs are stiff, my dress is mid swoosh, my fingers won’t move. My heart stopped beating. This is it! Laughing at people's misfortune is my untimely demise. I try screaming, I can hear it, but can't feel it. 

“Hey, don’t panic. At least not yet.”

“Who said that?” I reply, startled.

“Me,” says the helmet wearing Thad on the phone screen as I dart my eyes back to meet his.

“Ahh!” I squeal, muscles wanting to throw the phone at a wall.

“Not so loud. I feel a headache coming on,” Thad says. His face was no longer pressed against the ground, but there is a dent in his lip that is starting to turn red.

“What’s going on, why can’t I move, why can you talk? Why are you talking to me?”

“Slow down, one thing at a time. Firstly, I’m not this tool Thad. You can call me Omni.”

“What the hell is an Omni?”

“Short for Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Omniscient, the big three. I’m a pretty big deal Helen.”

“You know my name?”

“Hi, my name is Omni, how are you?”

His use of Thad as a host amplifies his sarcasm, which I ignore. “Can you please explain what is going on, am I dead? Are you a guardian angel?”

“I’m not exactly here to guard you.”

“Are you God?”

“God no!”

“Are you the Devil?”

“Do you believe in the devil?”

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe not.”

“So am I dead then or what?”

“No, at least not yet, but you might be soon!” exclaims Omni, removing his helmet and rubbing his swelling chin.

“Why do you sound so happy? This isn’t good. I’m going to be so late to work now.”

“At least you have an excuse.”

“Not funny.”

“I thought it was.” He smirks. “Listen up, we only have a little bit of time left here. Basically most people see their lives flash before their eyes before they die. Those are the ones that are truly fucked. But some lucky few, present company included, get a bit of a free pass. A second chance if you will.”

“So I'm not going to die then.” I let out a breath, or at least it feels like I do.

“Woah, I didn’t say you weren’t going to die. I just said you get a second chance. There is a possibility you are about to die, but you get a little bit of a heads up. Maybe you can avert disaster.”

“Shit. That's a lot of pressure.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says.

I ignore Omni’s comment. Instead I look around, trying to make out some kind of imminent disaster. “Is there a manhole in front of me that I can't see and this phone is in the way?”

“Sorry Helen, I'm just here to keep you company for a bit while you regroup.”

“Damnit, I’m starting to think you are responsible for this.”

“That’s not very nice! If this was my doing, why would I choose this dingbat of a body who actively hurled his teeth into the ground. If I could feel pain I'd be really hurting right now. You could have chosen a cat video or something.”

“Yeah ok, that makes sense I guess.” I continue scouring my surroundings in the limited scope I have. There could be someone behind me with a gun, ready to assassinate me in broad daylight.

“Who would want to assassinate you? The Ghost of Hot Dog Past?”

“You can hear my thoughts too?” my anxiety peaks, horrified at the thought of thinking about something weird or self incriminating.

“Firstly, what part of the ‘Omni tour de force’ are you not understanding? And secondly, relax, I’ve seen more weird shit than you could possibly fathom.”

“I don’t know what to do. You are saying that I have a chance? That death is imminent? I can’t see anything. I’m just walking down the street on my way to work. There are plenty of people around but everyone looks like they’re on their phones too. I’m not walking under a crane. I’m not balancing on a beam. The traffic is at a standstill. There are no fire-breathing dragons swooping down from the sky.”

“You sure about that last one?”

“What the hell do I do!”

“Tell you what. You're not the first to react this way when the danger isn’t obvious. Best advice I can give is to stop, crouch down, and cover your head. It wouldn’t work if you were walking along a tram line, but you’re not.”

“Ok. Thanks I guess.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So how long do I have to contemplate my life choices?”

“Well everybody gets about one minute.”

“Has it been a minute?”

“Time is a relative construct, Helen.”

 “Has it relatively been one minute?”

“Yes. Good luck!”

Life snaps back in action. I stay still. I haven't tripped, slipped, fallen, been shot, or been set alight by a red dragon. I duck, I drop my phone but not my hot dog as I pull my arms over my head. I dart my eyes around, trying to identify any invaders, foreign or domestic. 

But nothing happens. 

People stop in their tracks and look down at me. Faces flooded with concern or confusion.

“I’m ok,” I lie, meekly. Did I just have one too many gummies last night? What the hell is going on? I stand up and spin around.

Nothing. 

I mean. Everything is there, but nothing out of the ordinary. There is Raul, handing out another dog, just like he does every single day. But then he looks up to the sky. I follow his gaze. The sky glows red, then flashes white hot. In the space of about point zero-zero-zero-five milliseconds an asteroid slams into downtown Manhattan, destroying every building within a hundred mile radius, and the rest of my hot dog.