Written: Dec 10, 1999 (The Man With) All The Time In The World ---------------------------------------- "I don't have time for all this right now!" The sound of alarm and urgency in his voice was quite convincing. Had I not known him, I might have thought he was "stressing out" or "under too much pressure" or some similar phrase du jour. But I did know him, and in fact Rodwick and I have known each other for years, an amount that always surprises me if I stopped to calculate it. His clear blue eyes were the clue. They showed no stress, no urgency. And pretty quickly, his expression, complete with mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed and hands in an open, supplicating gesture, began to change. The eyebrows unfurrowed, a smile cracked its way through the mouth, and his hands folded together. Finally, he laughed out loud. "Now THAT is exactly how you would be, my boy, had you not met me," he said. Our semi-biweekly lunches together had been a staple of my routine for years now. In all the frantic rush to get everything done, I always seemed to manage to have a little time to spare to eat and chat. And more amazingly, Rodwick always seemed to be able to make time on his busy schedule to have at least an hour available. "Well, I'm busy...but I DO have my priorities. Can't let the work ethic interfere with that," I said. He laughed again and said, "You make me laugh, Alex. You've got a knack for that. And I do appreciate that." He wasn't done yet. After a pause, while he swirled the wine around in his glass, he continued, "That's why I've tried to avoid all business matters between us." He paused only long enough to raise his hand, two fingers together pointing into the air, and catch the eye of the server. "I need to settle the bill, and then be on my way. And ... well, it's doubtful we'll see each other again." Before I could even protest, he cut me off, saying, "It's been delightful, lots of fun. Many hours of stimulating conversation. Lots of time ... good times. Not to mention a number of ... vintage years," he said, swirling the wine, which was older than me, in the glass again. "But ... well, duty calls." ----- I thought back to the days around the time when I had first met Rodwick. It was a time when everything just seemed to be getting busy. They kept dumping more work in my inbox at the office, the club seemed to be needing more of my time, our league had games three times a week. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I seemed to be falling further and further behind; the stack of unread paperbacks and magazines on my nightstand gave silent testimony to that. Beyond that, it had been months since I had visited home, years since I had even spoken to various so-called close friends from collage, after living with them in a tiny apartment for three years. And it seemed what little time I could spare for Susan was always too fleeting. It was not unusual for us to go days without even speaking to one another on the phone. And to top it off, as far as I could tell, I was probably doing a better job at managing my time than most everyone else I knew. It was a Thursday, and having just come back from another business trip, I had nothing with which I could make a brown bag lunch. So, in a moment of indulgence, I went to the local sandwich shop. It was busy, and everyone was in a hurry. Well, everyone except the ones making the sandwiches. So I sat at my little table, waiting for them to call my number, trying to figure out how I could squeeze in enough time to buy a birthday present for my niece (her birthday was two month's ago, but I had sent a card) and get the oil in my car changed before the weekend. I was ignoring all the conversation going on around me, just waiting to hear "Number 37, your order's up!" Instead, I heard a voice, quiet, yet clearly distinctive above the din say, "A moment of your time." As I looked up, the voice added in an afterthought, "if you please." I looked up and saw a man standing there, dressed in an understated, yet undoubtedly expensive business suit. He was probably taller than me, maybe a little thinner than me, and definitely older than me. He had an air of quiet dignity about him. And somehow, there seemed to be an unrushed manner about him that was refreshingly different. His eyes were a clear, light blue that seemed to see right through everything, secretly laughing at some unspoken joke. After taking in the scene, I replied, "Yes?" "Mr. ... ?" he inquired. "Holder. Alex Holder," I replied out of habit. "Mr. Holder, I must ask you for a seat," he said, with a quick motion around the room, showing that there were no empty tables left, and that it was obvious that I was not using all places at my table. "A share of your table, and but a moment of your time," he continued after concluding his sweeping gesture. It was almost shocking that someone could be so polite over a thing as small as sitting at your table. In New York, people wouldn't even ask, they'd just sit right down, as if you weren't there. And in an equal share of politeness, you pretended that they didn't exist either. Everyone was happy; no one got hurt. Sure, it was nice to take a moment to ask permission before you sat down, but this seemed almost excessive by comparison. Without missing a beat, I said, "My friend, you can have that chair, for I've only one one butt and it's happily occupied; you can have half the table, as my tray needs no more than that. But I'm afraid I can spare you little more than a moment of my time, and even that takes a heavy toll on me." It was as if I had happened upon the combination on a safe. He smiled widely, laughed freely, patted me on the shoulder and said, "Alex, my boy, I'm impressed. Thank you. Maybe next time then, my treat." And with that he walked away. I was about to get up and say something when I heard them call my number. Oh well, there were enough kooks around that I was sure I'd get my fill another time. That time was two weeks later. The phone rang at work, and when I answered, the caller said, "Alex! I'm afraid our little lunchtime chat was cut short prematurely." When I asked who it was, I heard that laugh again, and he said, "Why, that's right. I never even told you my name. It's Rodwick, and no, I don't go by Rod. I almost shared a table with you at lunch the other day. I'd like to make up for the little imposition. Lunch. Noon. Today. Cheri's on the Plaza." "Well...I'd be delighted, but I don't think I have the time..." The first excuse I could think of. "Like I said last time, it's on me. You'll have the time, if you make it." There was almost an insistence in the voice, and I realized my previous excuse had painted me into a corner. I stopped, took a breath, half- chuckled, and told him I'd be there. I don't know why I agreed, it seemed kind of odd, and Cheri's was a place I had only been to once with Susan. Actually, we had only been to the bar. The restaurant itself, with its waiters in tuxedos and fancy chandeliers was way out of our price range. I told my boss I was going out for lunch and would be back a little later than normal. He said, "I've got a phone call about the Davidson contract at 4, I'll need you in on it." And that was all there was to it. The restaurant was quietly elegant. Exactly as one might expect. Rodwick seemed to treat me as an old friend, and in some odd way, we hit it off just like old friends. Talking about anything and everything. And now, several years later, he's telling me he's about to exit as mysteriously as he appeared. ------ The silence hung between us for ten seconds, until I finally broke it with one word. "How?" He seemed both surprised and amused by the question. "How...what?" he said, cagily. "Not what. Not why. Those are the questions you'd expect, and ones you wouldn't answer. Just how." He stared ahead, unfazed, but the corners of his mouth started to show the familiar fault lines. "Quite simply, how do you do it? This time management. I know you're busy. Ten...one hundred times as busy as me. You've mentioned your travels on occasions. You've been all around the world. Often you have an appointment in New York and L.A. in the same day, followed up with a jump to the Orient, a stop on the Continent, and then back home for dinner. You manage to juggle a dozen things at once and...," I was finally getting to my point, "AND...I've never seen you rushed, in a tizzy, nor in any way behind schedule. For some crazy reason, you seem to be able to spare a couple hours out of your schedule for me, and the strangest thing is...I seem to be able to spare the time for you. I just don't understand HOW." "Alex," he began, in his fatherly tone, "I can only say it's a pity that it's our last meeting in which you ask these questions. Yes, my schedule is usually pretty full, and yes, I travel extensively, far more than you can imagine, and obviously, I'm successful at what I do. But you don't know what my business is. And to tell you the truth, I've rather avoided that topic...because I consider you a friend. But I might as well answer a few of your questions, and I know you have them, before I leave." "You really hit the nail on the head, when you mentioned time management, because that is a nice way to describe what I do. My clients pay dearly for any way in which they can squeeze a few more hours, or even minutes, into the day. And that is exactly what I can provide. Why, you yourself even realize that you seem to be managing to take a two-hour lunch once every two weeks, something which I'm certain would have been inconceivable before you met me." "I should tell you that I've been in business for a number of years now. Actually, several years before we met, though not all that many before that, if I recall the dates correctly." He does. I know it. I've challenged him before about dates and events, and I've never known him to be wrong once. It was definitely his area of expertise. He continued, uninterrupted. "You see, any businessman will tell you there are only two things you can sell: goods and services. You can make goods, but you wind up getting into a battle with competition, trying to make it cheaper, quicker, better, whatever. Or, you can provide a service. You sell someone else's goods, and people pay for your expertise, your knowledge, your ... style. I'm a broker of sorts. A time management broker." His explanation failed to really make things any clearer. Before I could get a word in edgewise, he cut off my unasked question. "No, my boy, don't even ask at this point. I'm sure you've got it all wrong. And probably my fault too. You'd think I'd be able to describe my services better than that by now. Let me try again, but coming around from a different side. We'll change the subject and see where that gets us: computers." "And computer crime. You ever read stories about some 'classic' cases? Banks. Lots of money. An irresistible temptation, as they've always been. But your computer criminals ... now they take a different tack. Rather than just break into the safe in a bank, and make off with a big sum of money, or make off with all the money you can get from holding the tellers at gunpoint, they would do the stealthy crime. The crime where the victim did not even KNOW they were, indeed, the victim." "The best trick was to make the computers cut off the fraction of a penny when a transaction occurs, like calculating the interested on a bank account. And that little bit of a cent would be put into an account. Pittance, to be sure. But now, if that were done for EVERY transaction for EVERY account in the bank ... now your pennies turn into dollars, millions of them, and NO ONE KNOWS. Each account can't even SEE the fractional difference. And the bank, which scrutinizes their balance sheets down to the fractional penny, can't see it because their books STILL BALANCE. Oh, there are the details, like it wouldn't all accumulate in one account, but that's mere triffles; you understand the basic idea. And the burglar waltzes away, rich and free. Well, sometimes it's not waltz as much as it's take the money and run, but no matter. You see?" My head was almost swimming, but I wasn't about to be pulled away by his river of words just yet. I was still hanging on to the line of conversation with one arm. Trying to pull myself back up, or rather reel the conversation back in, I managed to say, "But...what has this to do with time management?" His eyes gleamed as he smiled a knife which severed the line with three words: "Time ... is ... money." "What if, just like our bank robber, one were able to save the fractional moments that are wasted by people. How often do you see people pause after a meal and then say, 'Alright. Back to work.'? They gain nothing from it. How many moments in a day do things like that happen? In a week? In a month? What about across all the people in the city, in an hour alone? What about in a place like LA, in a single minute? Think of what could be done with all that extra time, if only it could be put to use!" "Now, you're closer, but you're still probably wrong, so just let me continue. Let's assume you can do just that: save all the wasted bits of time and store them somewhere, in an 'account' of sorts, and have them accumulate. Now think about people that truly know the value of time. The CEOs, the world leaders, the aging sports legends. What if they could BUY some of that time? Time to get in that extra meeting at the end of the day, finish that last chapter of the book, or spend the entire weekend with that someone." "And thus, time becomes money. And with the money, which they are ever so happy to part with, we can make the business grow. Now, we do take a commission. Call it a perk. Enough to get by. And of course the pay is decent enough to allow for a comfortable lifestyle. And while we are running our business, we are also still gathering up the moments, including the ones that we just sold! And thus, we can continue until we need to ... move on." "And I'm afraid that in another thirty seconds, that's exactly what I must do. Of course, similar to our bank robber analogy, there are those who pursue such entrepreneurs. But, as you have noticed, I am very good with dates, very good with time, and very good with planning. So it's highly unlikely they'll catch up with me. But I'm afraid our ... time ... together ... is almost up, and like our waltzing rogue, I must ... run." He stood up, placed a hand on my shoulder and said, "I DO hope you have enjoyed our time together, old boy. It's the least I could do. And that is, in fact, what I strive for. And this once, I must leave you with the tab to pay." My shoulder burned, the sound of a whirlwind drowned out all other noises and darkness flooded inward. I sat. I stared. But the visions went unseen and the voices went unheard. "Christ, what a rat-trap. Watch your step, the boards might give out from under you as you walk. That chandelier nearly fell right on top of me." "How long you think he's been gone, Sarge" "Who the hell knows? Only thing's for sure is that he grabbed every last bit that wasn't nailed down." "What about that one? A witness?" "I don't think that ancient geezer'd see a ship if it hit him, and if he did, and if his mind were more than mush, and if we were able to actually catch that bastard, I doubt he'd last through the trial." "Yeah. You're right. It doesn't look like he's got much time left."