Time is Commodity

Time, the driving force behind this rat race we’re all in. With the advent of progress, like the railroad schedules, time became a commodity that could easily be dissected to a point where the days have apparently shortened. If not, we seem to have less time to do what we really want to do. Mankind has successfully managed to control time with schedules. Ultimately, they imprison us. So, the question is, will mankind ever find the key to time-travel? Space-travel was discovered in the 20th Century. They say time-travel is a possibility in the 21st Century. Until we are all enlightened by the discovery of time-travel, the greatest invention in the history of mankind, the airplane is my time-machine.

I’ve embraced air-travel in a twisted fantasy of traveling in time to pursue my passions; never been on a train traveling across the country. But air travel has been a part of my life from an early age. And, for most of my adult life, I've worked in the Airline Industry, a combined 25 years with two Major Airlines. Other doors of opportunity have opened for me. But the airlines have always been in the background. The network of airports has been my portal access and O’Hare International was in my back yard. I’ve been pre-occupied in a love affair with airplanes and terminals, like moving parts to a time machine. In a delusional kind of way, time itself becomes a desired destination, as if I can catch up with its fleeting loss. Transport on the time machine. Chartering to places of Brotherly Love, Heartland, Mile High, Gateway, Golden Gate, Sunshine, Valley of the Sun, Silicon Valley, Sin City, Music City, Steel City, Tinsel Town, Bean Town, Cow Town, Buque, Big Apples, Big Peaches, Big Easy, and counting; closing in on more destinations. Magical!

In a nutshell, I was born in Rio Piedras, Puerto Rico; grew up Chicago, Illinois; and moved to Orlando, Florida at the age of 38. In my toddler years, my concept of the world was Puerto Rico, New York, and Chicago. It’s all I ever heard the grown-ups talk about in my limited flat world. I’ve been obsessed with two other passions; Baseball and Architecture. Sometimes in life, we are blessed to discover that thing that stirs our imagination. It’s like when you first look at something and instantly get it, somehow. No one has to explain it to you because you are already there. Baseball and Architecture have always done that for me. My curiosity has driven me to pursue those two things over the years. As a child, I first dreamed to being a Major League Baseball Player. And, as I got older, I dreamed of becoming an Architect. Time stands still; between the lines on the playing field and within the lines on the drawing board. For me, passion is almost like a fantasy to control time. You see, time is very elusive and these two interests help to put things into perspective. These interests have inspired me to aim high but they also help me to forget about my own existential crisis, when needed.

Born in 1966; the world was in turmoil and civil unrest. But I had a great childhood and did not come to terms or was even aware of the world I inherited until I reached college age. Cool McCool, a spoof of James Bond, was an animated cartoon tv series. It debuted on the day I was born. Superheroes and James Bond spy adventures were popular genres of that era. Bob Kane, mostly famous for Batman, also created this Cool McCool. Marvel Comics and Get Smart flooded the market. I doubt that Cool McCool was ever syndicated. It’s the only way I would’ve remembered the show. Cool McCool ended before I found my social conscience. Eventually, I would discover that my superheroes fought for social justice in the 1960’s. For the most part, they were assassinated. They themselves were not invincible. But their ideals live on. And, spy games like Cold War, Watergate, and Iran-Contra were no joke; building blocks of a new world order.

My last hero was Roberto Clemente; a Hall of Fame Major League Baseball player who died on New Year’s Eve 1972 while leaving on a time-machine to Nicaragua. In lieu of reports that supplies were not making it to the neediest; he made the decision to get on board. He would personally ensure that supplies would get to victims of the 6.3 magnitude earthquake. Despite repeated warnings of the time-machine being dangerously over loaded, Roberto Clemente and crew plunged into the sea almost instantly upon take-off, his body never to be found. Time had ended. Time has no do-over. Time is not unforgiving. Instead, its indifferent to our pain. Initially, many grew angry at his judgement that night, wondering how could he decide to be away from his family on New Year’s Eve. It’s a special time to be with family on the island. What we all learned from Roberto Clemente was the importance of humanitarianism and service to others: a legacy that lives stronger than ever 48 years later. Originally from Puerto Rico, he is the pride of the island. Because of the color of his skin, he too endured the trials of segregation during his career. We can never forget the past.

My Family moved from Puerto Rico to Chicago, Illinois in the fall of 1973, nine months after his death. I discovered a city with two Major League Baseball teams; the Chicago White Sox and the Chicago Cubs. Sometimes, while watching the Chicago Cubs games on WGN Television, they would play the film "Roberto Clemente: A Touch of Royalty" during rain delays. I would always shed a tear. From an early age, I discovered that there was something, greater than ourselves, to live for. All that is left are faded images of him in his road greys, playing the Chicago Cubs, walking up to bat with the brick wall, in the background behind home plate of Wrigley Field. Those wonder years are captured for future generations to know him.

Baseball Players and Architects have a certain understanding of everything that came before. Ignorance is not bliss. Every action is in reverence to or a sort of continuation of this saga, a fraternal order, a reflection of society. To mention a few, some notable grains of sand in Architecture are, Louis Sullivan, who said form follows function, Meis Vander Roe said “less is more”, Frank Lloyd Wright was the god father of the Prairie Style; withstanding the test of time.

My Dad was a skilled carpenter for over 30 years. He had a talent sought after by people who knew him. My of passion in Architecture may have been subliminal. But, growing up in a city like Chicago, world renowned for its Architecture, cued my interest. The Sears Tower, John Hancock, Tribune Building, Marina City, Wrigley Building, Auditorium Building, and Water Tower and more were also in my back yard. I read blueprints in awe of the endless information that seemingly overflowed my own imagination. I would stare at them and wonder about the person who sat down to design all the intricate details of the doors, windows, layouts, fixtures, plumbing, etc. It just seemed to go on with no end, stirring certain curiosities in me to a point of excitement about how this madness came together. Architecture is timeless; styles representing ages.

There are three basic attributes to Architecture: expression, arrangement, and shelter. To function, Architecture must be an expression of life, as well as a shelter for it. In a masterpiece work, one can find no element that does not reflect all three attributes of architecture as one. In describing the three attributes of Architecture, reality ends when you say all three should be in harmony. The cold reality is that life is tough and mankind historically has had a hard time grasping that concept, of being in harmony. If we don’t learn from history, will we learn from time-travel?

But, time-travel cannot exist because of the paradox it would create. How can I go back and affect something that contradicts my existence, like going back to murder my parents? If it were possible, then I could not live with myself at any point in time. The Movie “Back to the Future” has left an indelible mark on my soul. Marty McFly tried to save his parents. I have never been so disappointed to see a film end. Credits started to roll down the larger than life screen. Time was up. People began to stand and make their way out the door. But I was frozen in that seat at the Water Tower Theatre in Chicago of 1985. This was one of those moments of discovery and I was afraid that, once I stood up to leave the theatre, I would lose it forever, like discovering the meaning of life. I did not want to leave the theatre, I wanted to enter the portal.

One time, I moved back home while I was between jobs, between apartments, between relationships, somewhere between the vibrant twenties and those rejuvenated forties. “What the fuck happened to my life?” I thought. I didn’t have one, just left with this anxiety that consumed my will, only able to sleep for two-three hours. The few meals were without taste or texture. It didn’t matter who made it. The fact was that I found no comfort in food or anything else for that matter. The tension would build when I physically stood still. Anxiety once again set in. I can’t breathe!

It was three in the morning one night. I suddenly jumped to a sit up on my bed. The truth is I was suffocating in my sleep. I was just coming up for air. I’m surrounded by all my worldly possessions, still in boxes and scattered about my new old bedroom in the attic. I’m alone. Just a few days earlier, I had moved from the apartment I shared with my recent ex-girlfriend. Losing Monika was a pain that I never felt before or since. They say time heals all wounds: fast approaching 30 years. Yet my heart is frozen in time.

At the onset of the Ice age, I was lying on the bed in the attic. The orange street light peered into the dark room from the only window. The stacks of boxes from my recent move would cast disproportioned geometric shadows across the front of my bed; just enough light to see the wreckage of my world. Another time-machine goes down in flames. My life is crashed and burned. “If I sift through the mess, then maybe I can find the black box to help explain,” I wondered. I walked the attic, front to back, as if I really were looking for something, scratching my head. When pacing back and forth in the attic would no longer work, I put my coat on and grabbed the car keys because driving aimlessly was the next level of constant motion. For six months, consistent movement was my resolve. I think I’ve been looking for more time. But time is unforgiving. Time is not sitting, waiting for me to be brilliant. Time is of the essence.

Mom took a time-machine home to Puerto Rico the week before I was born. She was stuck on the layover in Miami. “Due to weather,” they said. It was a stressful time. Ultimately, I was born in Puerto Rico, Island of Enchantment. My God Mother, Luz, gave me a great perspective about the time I was born. “You’ve always been interested in travel because you transcended from your mother’s stress of being stranded in Miami that year,” Luz said. I’m still trying to make the connection to San Juan that day. Mom first came to Chicago with Dad to work the factories, save money, and eventually head back to paradise. Raised by her grandparents taught Mom to be selfless in giving her kids everything she was deprived of. I owe a great childhood to her.

Growing up, Mom stayed with her grandparents when she lived in Puerto Rico. But she spent most of the day with my uncle Tomas and his future bride to be Luz. My God Parents. Cayo (RIP), my great-grandfather, first saw me lying on the bed while my mom changed my diapers. He walked by while my privates were hanging in the air. “You see how his balls are hanging? That kid’s going to be lazy in life,” he said. Mom found the most awkward moments to bring that up. I wondered what it was about my balls that made Cayo think I would be lazy in life. But I never asked out of concern that it would lead to further discomfort. Mom crafted the story. At thanksgiving one year, I stole her thunder and finished the story abruptly. “Anybody wants to see what lazy balls look like,” I said. Lately, the story has taken a strange twist. Now, it’s about Cayo looking at my ears. The small edit was probably for my wife’s sake. She’s already heard the original version, uncut, no pun intended. As it turns out, Cayo was a racist that never approved of Dad for his granddaughter. Dad has course curly hair and a darker complexion, nothing like the Castilian kind Cayo was familiar with. Perhaps my balls should have been a lighter shade. I disapprove of the mistreatment of my mother by five of her six uncles who bullied her for most of her childhood. Thomas was the sixth and only uncle that defended her. Mom’s happiest memories are when Luz and Thomas were dating. They were her best friends.

The day after my thirty-fifth birthday, I wake up at seven fifty-two in the morning. The floor plan of my third-floor apartment is 1000 square feet of kitchen, a small dining room, a living room, and my bedroom. It forms a perfect square. The bathroom in the center, near the front door. A hall way cuts through the middle. I walk out of my bedroom and wander into the hallway, the hardwood floor starts to creek. I can almost count the rays of the sun in the living room. Indian summer. The short walk in the hallway helps me to clear the cobwebs in my head and to focus on the day at hand. I reach for the tv remote because it helps to activate my brain cells. I push power and suddenly remember that I have a meeting in the field at ten thirty in the morning. I stand in front of the tv, self-absorbed. At this age, I should be rolling in the cash. Instead, I’m living check to check. My grievance wasn’t misguided. It just lacked focus. The smoke billows out of the first tower. It reminds me of a scene from a science fiction movie, where the buildings are abandoned because people are all gone. “But wait, this isn’t a preview. It’s in real time,” I said. I rely on the “Today Show” to explain. Matt Lauer is on. “We are getting reports that a small private aircraft possibly ran into the tower, accidently losing its way,” he said. The talking heads flap while a live image shows the time machine slamming into the second tower on one side then a furious cloud of fire roars out of the opposite side. “That was no accident! I yelled. Time stands still. Disbelief is paralyzing. Struggling to make sense of it is futile. I was just there last year. “A third-time machine has struck the Pentagon,” I heard. How many have they hijacked? Ten? Twenty? The stress continues to cling on to the seconds hand on the clock; ripples of anxiety that interfere with society like radio waves. You are live. Action!

The year is 2020. Time stands still. A pandemic of the worst kind (airborne) swept across the globe via covid-positive agents; boarding the time-machines accelerated the spread. No one knows where it came from. Don’t ask! Remember when they said time waits for no one and that it was unforgiving. Not this time. Magical! The rat race that we've all been conditioned to participate in has come to screeching halt. What now? Time will tell. The speed of light has been to space as space has been to time. In the scientific community, there has been a consensus that the speed of light was constant, until 2013. Some have reason to believe that the quantum physics properties of space used to measure the speed of light may be off. So, the question is, will mankind ever find the key to time-travel?

Note from future self; you will never be an Architect or a Major League Baseball Player. It doesn’t matter. During your pursuit, there will be many moments like this in the search for self. Being at a crossroads is no need to panic. There’s just a bump in the road. It’s been an adventure of triumph and tragedy. “The path is the goal”- said Mahatma Gandhi. Looking back, there were positions held and lessons learned that will push the wheels of progress forward. Interests opened the doors to meet many great human beings.

More importantly, I’ve had the opportunity to serve others. The more I seek for self-improvement, the more I find myself at the threshold of other people’s needs. I wrote that once in a personal statement. I find comfort in that because it means, that for better or for worst, I have left an indelible mark; but there are only one set of footprints in the sands of time. I try to help others to save myself. And, it started with Mom and Dad. I’m moved by the thought of participating in something “greater than ourselves”. It’s something we may all be looking for within our own experience, our sense of place or belonging, the grain of sand that forms the dunes and settles somewhere on the landscape, staking a claim. But time is a Commodity.