a backpack carrying two breakfast sandwiches from an all-night diner on Lombard, a thermos full of coffee, and drawings of the art project I’d been working on for the past month, the one that came to me in a vision after I dropped Cal off at the airport.
My original concept had been a sculptural, working hourglass filled with as much sand as it would take to flow continuously from the top bulb into the bottom until my life was over. I estimated forty years’ worth of material as a safe bet, the thought being that every day I’d literally be able to see my time running out, and that would be a quotidian impetus for me to stop wasting it.
I ran the idea by an architect I used to work with at Harper & Sons, and while he agreed it would be possible to build such an edifice, he concluded that the amount of sand needed, and the structural engineering it would take to hold the weight of that sand, would necessitate a sculpture the size of a small building. But I wanted something I could look at on my wall or, at the very least, in my backyard.
After further consideration, I reimagined the sculpture as a light installation made up of 14,600 tiny lights—the estimated amount of days I had left. The lights would spell the words “The Clock Is Ticking,” and every day one light would go out until all 14,600 lights had gone out and, most likely, so had I. Hopefully with fewer regrets.
I’d consulted my old buddy Len, electrician extraordinaire, on the optimal way to ensure the sculpture would last for forty years, and he suggested I make the tiny lights out of hollow, colored glass, not filament. Sort of like an elaborate Lite-Brite, with a back panel that uses two separate light sources, one active and one as backup. When the active one burns out, the backup will kick in while the other is being replaced, and so on and so forth, enabling continuous illumination for the duration of my life.
For over an hour that morning, Eli and I were the only two people in line, and we passed the time talking about a trip he’d taken to Sweden over the summer. He’d been on assignment in Fulufjället National Park and stopped to see a Norway spruce known as Old Tjikko, a tree that’s allegedly been growing since the Neolithic period.
Eli showed me photos of the tree with the kind of dorky zeal I assume I exhibit when I’m talking about redwoods and guitars.
“This guy was born around the time humans learned to cultivate wheat,” Eli said. “That makes him older than bread. Remarkable, huh?”
It was. And at roughly sixteen feet tall, with skeletal branches that sag downward, Old Tjikko looks more like a sad Charlie Brown Christmas tree than the oldest known Picea abies on the planet.
“It’s actually the root system that dates back ninety-five hundred years,” Eli explained. “The trunk and branches have died and been reborn multiple times.”
I wondered aloud if I’d been identifying with the wrong tree all my life. And without thinking, I said, “You should tell October about Old Tjikko when you see her today. She likes trees too.”
Eli had been nearby during my altercation with Rae the day before, but he’d refrained from asking me any questions. Now he knit his brow, spoke softly. “You two have some kind of history, I gather.”
I liked Eli. He was interesting and thoughtful. We’d exchanged phone numbers, and he’d invited me to go sailing with him the following weekend, so I didn’t feel right about making anything up. But I also knew I would need a few beers in me before I could give him the real scoop.
“October and I used to work together.” My body stiffened, a reminder that everything about that woman still lived inside of it. “We were close. It didn’t end well. I guess I’m trying to rectify that.”
The sun rose at 7:24 a.m., and by then the line was around the block and past the parking garage. The crowd was feisty that morning, undoubtedly because it was the last day of the exhibit and everyone who hadn’t made it in yet had shown up expecting entry before it closed. There was a lot of pushing and shoving. People tried to cut the line. One guy offered Eli two grand for his spot. A girl in Birkenstocks and thick wool socks offered me sex for mine.
About an