Narrative: Minutes for Sale

There was a receipt in my pocket. 23 MINUTES PAID 01:46 My phone said 03:12. I remember thinking... that's not twenty-three minutes. (That's not twenty-three) Twelve minutes... twenty-three... forty-one... How much of tonight belongs to me? (Belongs to me) I'd moved here for work. New apartment. New route home. New words I kept pronouncing wrong. After midnight the neighborhood became busier. Food carts, scooters, steam, plastic stools filling the pavement. Between two food stalls was one that didn't sell food. Three handwritten cards: 12 MINUTES 23 MINUTES 41 MINUTES I pointed at twelve. The vendor handed me an empty paper container. Receipt: 12 MINUTES 00:38 I checked my phone. 00:50. Exactly twelve minutes later. Twelve minutes... twenty-three... forty-one... How much of tonight belongs to me? (Belongs to me) A woman stopped me outside the station. "You came back." I'd never seen her before. She showed me her phone. There I was, eating beside her at the night market. The photograph was dated... tomorrow. I asked where we'd met. She pointed toward the stall. (The time stall) I started asking people. The noodle vendor beside it shrugged. "It's always been there." "What does it sell?" He looked directly at the cards. "What are you talking about?" "The minutes." "What minutes?" Same answer from everyone. Always been there. Nobody knew what it sold. Nobody thought that was strange. (Always been there) (Always been there) I woke at a bus terminal. Tuesday. Tuesday hadn't happened yet. Four receipts were in my wallet. 7 MINUTES 23 MINUTES 16 MINUTES 52 MINUTES I remembered none of them. My phone contained messages from people I didn't know. Thank you for dinner. Why did you leave? Who taught you my name? Then a message arrived from my own number. DON'T BUY 41. (Don't buy forty-one) I bought forty-one. I know because... I remember deciding not to. The receipt read: 41 MINUTES TRANSFER COMPLETE SOURCE: 00418 DESTINATION: NEW ARRIVAL I asked the vendor what "source" meant. She finally spoke. "Someone who wasn't using them." The woman from the station showed me more photographs. Same table. Same night. In each photograph less of her meal had been eaten. Mine was finished. In the last photograph, I was sitting alone. She said, "I lost twenty-three minutes that night." Twelve minutes... twenty-three... forty-one... How much of tonight belongs to me? I went behind the stall. Under the menu was a ledger. Names. Numbers. Transfers. Then mine. NEW ARRIVAL 12 RECEIVED 23 RECEIVED 41 RECEIVED 7 RECEIVED 16 RECEIVED 52 RECEIVED I'd only chosen twelve and forty-one. (Only twelve) (And forty-one) The missing conversations, the photographs, the days arriving out of order... weren't missing time. They were somebody else's minutes inserted into mine. Nearly every name began: NEW ARRIVAL. I found the woman. 23 GIVEN 16 GIVEN 52 GIVEN. Then I noticed a man I'd seen every night since arriving. Same table. Same unfinished meal. His name filled eleven pages. REMAINING: 0 MINUTES Nobody looked at him. Nobody seemed to know he was there. I found my name again. REMAINING: The printer began before the number appeared. 12... 23... 41... Twelve minutes... twenty-three... forty-one... How much of tonight belongs to me? (Belongs to me) Seven minutes... sixteen more... fifty-two... How much of my life belongs to you? (Belongs to you) My receipt printed. REMAINING: 6 YEARS, 4 MONTHS, 11 DAYS I'd lived here... six days. (Six days) Behind me, the vendor replaced the menu. 6 YEARS 4 MONTHS 11 DAYS How much of tonight... belongs to me? (Belongs to me)