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Some ill-timed thoughts on mis-timed tasks

By Ed Goldman

Let’s talk about clockwork. In my experience, every time I’ve been told that something will proceed “like clockwork”—car, appliance or home repairs; event planning; my meds to kick in—I should have asked for more clarity. To wit: (a) Whose clock, yours or mine? (b) Which time zone houses the clock?

Since my adventures with the concept of clockwork leave much to be desired, such as adherence to an agreed-upon work timeline, you can imagine how little confidence I have in my own ability to set and maintain a schedule.

This doesn’t mean I arrive late for dinner parties, doctor appointments or insurrections—though it fails to mention that I’m a no-show at a lot of these, which makes my punctuality a moot point. 

For younger readers: “moot” is not the same as “mute,” even though I hear most of you pronounce it that way. “Moot” means unsettled or in dispute. When law students participate in something called “moot court,” they’re making arguments about hypothetical or “what-if” cases. If it was a “mute court” you’d have a bunch of people in mime outfits pretending they’re entrapped or estopped. (Outside of the courtroom, of course, we say trapped” or “stopped.” This concludes your free trial lecture on “‘Legalese’ or ‘English, Please?'”) 

So it came as a surprise to me when, a few weeks ago, I hatched an errands plan: to take out $400 in cash to buy two new rear tires for my car; to return a borrowed car I’d been driving for a few days while my car was getting diagnosed for maladies other than worn tires; to then pick up my car from the garage conducting the diagnosis; and finally, to take it to the store that would sell and install the new tires. Save this paragraph if anyone in your family ever says, “I bet a freelance writer’s life is glamorous.”

I had given myself 2.5 hours to accomplish all of this, mentally breaking down the tasks into chunks of time. I was smart enough to not write any of it down, though, since I was doubtful of my ability to carry out the plan and didn’t want to leave a paper trail.

While there was no genuine urgency at play I knew if the plan went off like (yes!) clockwork, it would provide a tremendous relief. For days, as I was piloting that borrowed car I was a study in hypertension—though in the process, I was also what Dustin Hoffman in “Rainman” would have called “an excellent driver.”

Oh, it was a car I’d driven often enough with its owner seated beside me when she didn’t feel like taking the wheel and asked me to do so. Why people would ever feel my driving skills would be superior to theirs has less to do with me than with my having regaled them with stories about my dad’s background. He drove the front of a hook-and-ladder firetruck in New York City for 20 years. Friends probably think his abilities were genetic and therefore possible for me to inherit. Yet all I really gleaned from him about operating a motor vehicle was what he told me when I was 15-and-a-half and got my learner’s permit: “You have to drive as though everyone else on the road is groggy.”