FL 1138

Briton opened the car’s back door, tossed the worn brown leather briefcase inside, closed the door and opened the front door to sit inside. He started the car first, putting on the defroster for the front and back window, before closing the door.

He kept the door opened in case the defroster didn’t clear the windows as promptly as he hoped. His last resort was a red ice scraper in the glove compartment if the defroster did not work. For the middle of May, frost was an unlikely culprit of winter. Slow departing temperatures just below freezing produced frost on a cool wintry day for May in Wiesloch.

Slowly, he eased the car out of the driveway, waved at a neighbor behind the car, now chipping the ice on their car as he headed to the center of town.

The town was alive for such an earlier departure. Woman carrying baskets, scurried the sidewalks to bakeries on each corner or the local markets for fresh produce. Briton avoided the early shopping choosing to shop after work, when the stores were less crowded or that he wouldn’t be rushed, though Aimee, his girlfriend, avoided shopping all together. She opted to shop solely on Saturdays at one of the larger commercial stores.

He glanced down at the small green-lettered electrical clock. It glowed 10:45. He had exactly, thirty minutes to get from town to work at the SAP building. A 25-minute jot by bicycle without construction along B-39, but with the expansion of the lanes, detours routed the cars through town back and in again, until they were back two-lane highway.

Briton followed a yellow hatchback in front of him, then a green Honda, a blue Audi. Each car turned off in front of him, avoiding the pile ups and the extra detours. He had to admit as he sat within yards of the office, the extra detour around a track of farmland was unnecessary to get from the parking lot to the front door. Too many times he wished he’d followed the Honda or the Audi already at least five cars ahead, while waiting for the light to change. One less obstacle to endure before reaching the front door.

For a brief second, Briton looked at the clock, 11:20, it was getting close to check in time. Too much time spent in one place was inevitable, that was for sure. When he looked back up the cars were moving and a white Saab with the license plate FL 1138 cut into his lane.

Briton slammed on the breaks and blew his horn. But the car proceeded on to the light and waited like the others behind him, until it changed to green.

Briton stared at the plate. Curious as to the likelihood of his clock reading the numbers 1138, his blue eyes shifted to the car clock. The last geometric digit turned from 11:37:59 to 11:38. He jumped slightly in his seat. His foot tapped the gas and the car lunged forward, ramming into the back of the white Saab.

“Shaza,” Briton mumbled underneath his breath, turning off the ignition and running to see if the person in the car ahead was alright.

“Excuse me sir,” Briton tapped on the passenger’s window. A young man sat there with his cupped hands raised to his face, his fingers shielding his eyes. “Are you alright, are you injured? Sir…Sir.”

The door swung open, “help me please,” the young man said in a panic, “I’m missing one, maybe three – I’ve lost count.”

“What?”

“Five, six, seven, eight, nine – where’s the ninth one….oh my God.” He felt the carpet floor, the seats and backseats as far back as his reach would go. “Nothing can be missing.”

The young man opened his hand to reveal a group of glowing crystal-like stones. “There should be eleven; I only have nine or eight. Big sale today, if I make the appointment,” he forced a smile, “Eleven thousand, three hundred and eighty dollars for these precious diamonds -- one of a kind, definitely.”

Briton nearly tumbled back, how ironic could that be. “Are you okay? Are you?

“Yes but your car.”

“My fault, my fault,” Briton shook his head, reaching into his back pocket for his insurance card, driver’s license and paper to write an exchange of information with the driver. His eyes jetted to two glittering stones behind the passenger’s seat on the floor.

“Here,” he handed the missing stones to the young man.

“No,” the young man shook his head, “I cut you off. But, I must get these to a jeweler for placement in a piece for a lady with royalty statue. I’m the carrier you see.” He looked up at Briton for the first time; his eyes were a faint gray nearly clear like crystals. A face of pale skin lacking any trace of the sun – small unnoticeable features -- with tiny fine blonde hairs that stood up on his arms, face and neck. Slacks of black, a beat up overcoat and dingy white shirt underneath, none held the evidence of an emblem signifying he was a carrier of some sort.

“Would it be possible to use your car, if it’s okay?”

Briton nodded, sympathetically. It was the least that he could do.

“What time is it?”

“Oh,” he thought, drawing a number from the sky, since the last time he’d looked at a clock. It had to be more like 11:45 at least. Briton glanced at his tarnished gold watch on his arm, a gift from Aimee when they’d first started dating about five years ago. He was allergic to gold or gold-plated, anything gold – it didn’t matter. His body’s chemistry turned every watch he’d ever owned into a crummy grayish gold. But, he hadn’t the heart to tell her so.

The watch read, 11:38. Briton blinked again, but the hands didn’t move, even after he got into his car, turned the ignition and pulled out of the line of traffic, leaving the young guy’s car at the light.

“So, where am I taking you?”

“Heidelberg, near TUV.”

“The captain’s hat?” Briton smiled, the only building that he knew, shaped and molded with a blue captain’s hat for the presidential suite.

The young man didn’t bother to answer, recounting the stones over and over, again and again, verifying and re-verifying that all eleven of the jewels were accounted for. “You’re coming inside, right?” he asked, just as Briton parked the car up on the curb.

“I suppose.”

Britton stared up at the building, a complete glass building with exactly eleven floors. The jeweler was on the eleventh floor in room 38.

Briton waited in the lobby, a large white linoleum room. The floor, the ceiling, the walls, even the receptionist desk was covered in linoleum. A lady receptionist with similar pale features as the young man sat at the desk. She stared straight head, her eyes focused on a rotating clear ball with the tiniest of all gold locket inside in the corner of the room. The phone never ranged.

There was no color in the room except for Briton with his dark oynx suit, blue shirt with a blue and orange tie. He tapped his dark penny loafers on the floor, a soft echo twirled around the room.

“Beautiful day,” an old man appeared. Briton hadn’t heard a door open or close.

He sat up straight in his chair, his hands resting at his knees, he nodded, agreeing.

“It’s ironic isn’t it, eleventh floor, room 38.

Briton looked curious.

The old man moved closer to him and took a seat. “Two elevens. Eleventh floor and three plus eight is eleven. FL equals FLOOR, F is the sixth letter, L is the eleventh. RM equals ROOM, R is the eighteenth letter, M is the thirteenth letter. If you add the F and the L together you get eighteen. The R and M together equals 31. Do you get it?” His eyes twinkled as he spoke.

Briton began to perspire, something felt strange. How much more time was needed to count the jewels?

To his amazement the old guy, pulled out a pencil and pad, scribbling down F+L=18; R+M=31. He circled the two 1s and drew an arrow, moving them in front of the 3 and 8. “Amazing?” the old man asked again.

Briton scooted in his chair; things were getting stranger by the moment. He pinched himself, was he dreaming and where was Aimee? He quickly stood up, when one of the walls opened up and the young man walked through.

“Close call,” he held out his hand, “We made it in good time, thanks to you. My name is Kristof,” the young man said.

“Briton.”

“Like the country.”

“Close,” he tried to smile, but his jaw tightened. His lower lip quivered.

“I see you’ve met Karl, he loves numbers,” Kristof patted Karl on the back. Karl bowed, “at your service,” and humbly walked away, disappearing behind an entrance inside the wall.

“I hope he didn’t startle you. He knows numbers, has been here so long he can look at a piece and tell you how many gems it holds. May I offer you lunch, my treat?”

“No, no thank you – I’m due at work. I could give you a ride back though.”

“I appreciate it.”

As he neared the glass ball, he stopped, “if you don’t mind me asking what is that?”

“It’s a locket, it links our past to the present and sometimes future, depending on the time the hours. Our crystals help it keep suspended. If it should ever fall, all that we know today or tomorrow would be lost. It was a good thing that I bumped into you.”

“But I,” Briton started to say, and was quickly ushered from the room.

By the time he returned, the car was still at the stoplight. Someone placed cones around it to detour the traffic.

“Have you ever had one of those days, when you swear you’ve been transplanted from one place to another without ever moving, everything else around you moves, but time is standing still?”

Briton stared at Karl, without blinking. “No,” he whispered.

“Sure?”

“Sure…,” his voice faded, “here let me get my insurance to get your car fixed. It’ll just be a moment.” He fished through the glove compartment and stood up to hand the paper over to Karl. But, there was no Karl or his car, just the loud shrilling car horns behind Briton’s car.

He sat back the driver’s seat and scratched his head. The digital car clock, still read 11:38 and the more he stared, the more the time stayed. He pounded his fist on the dashboard and the numbers jumped to 11:39:01, 02, 03. Briton kept his eyes fixed on the changing numbers until it safely read 11:39 and the horns ceased. He took his position at the stoplight, signaled and turned into the parking lot, looking over his shoulder searching for a sign that he hadn’t been transplanted.

Then the car came with a hard thump. Breaking glass, shattered chrome in front of him as he ran into a white Saab with the license plate FM 11:39.

Someone knocked on the outside of the window, Briton was slow to look. There stood Kristof, smiling, ‘are you sure?’ he mouthed, then turned and faded into the early morning dew.

“I believe, I believe,” mumbled Briton to a shout. Suddenly he was back at the light, sitting in a line of cars on an unnecessary detour around the farmlands. The car sat in front of him with the license FL 1138.