06 23 57 53

The clock mocks him. Groucho mocks him. Fruit mocks him.

He'd like an arrow right now. Bam. Straight through the head. He can hear the cheering in the studio, and Herb announcing what they're doing and what time it is. The same Herb who's been announcing the same thing every week over the VTR for twenty years. Twenty years.

06 23 57 32

He shrugs his suit coat off and attempts to drape it over the bright red digits. It only covers half the face and only stays there for three seconds, 26, 25, 24, before sliding off the rounded plastic and dropping to the floor.

06 23 57 02

He locates the towel, still damp from his shower earlier, and drapes that instead over the clock. It stays for a few seconds (he can hear his heart counting the time down) but it's not the plastic that causes its demise, rather Matt himself. In those few seconds of staring at the white terrycloth, he worries that the moisture mixing with the electricity might ignite something and he's unprepared to deal with that when he's losing his mind.

He rips the towel off the clock and throws it across the room.

It's counting his days, his weeks, his life. He looks around for something to eat, finds a half-gnawed Snickers melting oozily beside the vent on his Mac and swallows it whole.

06 23 52 19

There's a pile of paper and some masking tape on the desk. He plasters the display with scraps of scribbled notes and admires his efforts. Much better.

He sits down at the desk, leans back in the chair and stares out of the window down onto the set. Harry is asking for butter. He hears the laughter and smiles.

The chair is uncomfortably comfortable. Good enough to work in, absolutely useless to relax in. He abandons it and falls onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling. There are pock marks where the plaster has crumbled away from years of age. Years of the clock ticking down the life the theater.

Maybe the Lord Jesus will cause the ceiling to cave in and put him out of his misery. No. If the ceiling does cave in it'll only be because Harry asked the Lord Jesus so very nicely during the prayer circle. Or because she looks so good in her white dress.

His back twinges and he rubs a fist over his spine to stop the ache. He can hear ticking. There's another laugh from the studio, this one loud and long. He smiles.

He swears he can hear ticking.

The audience laughs again, both on the monitor in his office and down in the studio. He jumps up from the sofa, turns the monitor off and then rips the paper off the clock.

06 23 40 54

Tick tick tick.

Tick.

He finds the switch and stops the countdown.

Tick. Tick Tick.

He rests his hands on the wall, above the clock, covering Groucho. Tick. Tick. He takes his watch off and throws it across the room at the towel.

Silence.

The numbers have stopped counting his destiny but he can see the faint outlines of the LED tubes behind the smoky plastic clock face. When he turns it back on it'll continue counting down. With batteries, it knows the time. Like a woman, She knows everything.

She knows his time is slowly diminishing. Every Friday night at eleven thirty She's going to tell him he's running out of time again.

He rocks back and forth for a minute or so. He assumes it's a minute or so because he has no other way of knowing and he's damned if he's going to let Her tell him.

He tries to get Her off the wall but She's glued down. Screwed in. Attached in a way he can't see and he can't get to the batteries and She's going to mock him when She's lit up again.

He switches Her back on.

06 23 34 01

He just lost nearly seven minutes. A quick calculation and he's shocked. Four hundred thirteen seconds. Thousands of milliseconds. He can't stand here anymore. He has to work. Has to write the script for the show staring in six days, twenty three hours, thirty three minutes and twenty five seconds. Factoring in sleep... fuck it, there's no way he's ever going to sleep again.

Another laugh from the studio and he goes to the window and stares down onto the set. Behind the cameras he can see Danny, his hair squashed by a headset. Tom, in his black wig, is arguing with Marky Mark. Harry is waiting for her cue behind one of the flats.

He smiles. Marky Mark, a man who will never lose the moniker and will be forever known for his bare ass and his Calvins. Harry is in front of the cameras now and is about to say her line. He says it with her. He knows the script backwards, forwards… upside down. He is the script. She gets the laugh and he's pleased.

He closes his eyes and sees numbers behind his eyelids. He opens his eyes and gazes down at Harry. She gets another laugh and, for another brief moment, he's happy. A commercial break is called and the lights in the studio dim while a flurry of stagehands race around changing the set for the return.

His stomach rumbles sadly and he ignores it, deciding instead to switch off his own light. The office is plunged into darkness, lit only by the burning red glow from the clock.

He lies back down on the couch, and stares up at the ceiling, willing God to put him out of his misery. God ignores him. He looks over at the numbers.

06 23 24 38

He sits up, crosses his legs and stares back at them. The lights in the studio are raised and the laughs start again. He settles in for the long haul.

Quietly, at the back of his mind, random ideas for the next show start germinating.

06 22 23 17

"Matt?" Cal waves his hands in front of his face. "Why are you sitting here in the dark? Matty? MATTHEW!"

A finger snap brings him back to reality. "Shh."

"What?"

"SHH! She's listening."

Cal looks around the room. "There's no one here, Matty."

Matt points and Cal raises his eyebrows. "The clock?"

"The clock. She's taunting me. Plotting. Planning my demise second by second with those glowing red numbers. Stalking. I'm being stalked by a piece of electronic equipment. It's surreal."

Cal nods and pats him on the shoulder. "Right. Well the show's over. Thought you might want to know. We're all in the basement."

"Why are you in the basement?"

"That's where the food is," Cal grins. "We go where the food is."

Matt finally looks up at Cal, and blinks confusedly. "Is the show over?"

"Yeah."

"Good show?"

"Good show." Cal confirms. "We got the laughs."

"Good."

"You coming down?"

Matt shakes his head, once again focused back on the wall. "I can't, I have to write next weeks script and watch Her."

"Who?"

"The clock."

"You didn't name her, did you?"

"No." Although now he thinks about, naming Her might be a good idea. Then when he loses his mind completely it'll be smarter to explain it was because he named the clock and not because he was truly insane.

"Okay, well you get back to your, um, writing and," Cal grins again, this time slightly more rictus in appearance, as he backs out of the office, "I'm just gonna go now."

Matt waves him off. "You bet, have fun."

06 22 18 12

Danny throws open the door to Matt's office and sees him sitting ramrod straight in the shaded darkness, legs folded, hands on knees, eyes wide and unblinkingly psychotic. "Matt?"

"Danny, my man. Good show?"

Danny crouches down in front of the sofa. "Great show! What's up with you?"

"Great! Great, that's great!" Matt exclaims loudly. "Can you move to the left please? You're in the way."

Danny looks over his shoulder at the wall and then back at Matt. "What are you doing?"

"Counting."

"Counting."

"Counting. Oh, for awhile I think there was singing too," Matt nods enthusiastically. "The singing was helping."

"Of course it was. Hey, Matt?"

"Hmm?"

"Has someone super glued your eyes open?"

"Sure feels that way." Matt gets off the sofa and crosses the office to stand in front of the clock. "She's measuring the truth we learn, the time we cry, and the bridges we're inevitably going to burn."

Danny sighs and follows him. "I thought you got over this thing?"

Matt shakes his head. "I just wasn't in here enough this week to truly appreciate how much She really hates me." He closes his eyes and starts singing. "Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes. Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred moments so-"

"Okay, what did I say about the show tunes?" Danny interrupts. "Especially ones disgustingly off key."

"Sing them loud, Matty," Matt says, conviction in his voice, "because musical theater is the only thing that cheers you up in the looming face of certain failure."

"Cal says you're wigged." Danny tries to hold back the laughter.

"Cal's right, Danny. Hey, who was it who said he loved deadlines, loved the whooshing sound they made as they whizzed by?"

"Douglas Adams."

Matt nods thoughtfully, running his fingers across the plastic face of the clock. "He died of a heart attack."

"Not because of a clock on a wall. And it's not a clock anyway. It's a countdown timer."

"Yeah that makes me feel so much better." Matt bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, his eyes tracking the numbers as they track him. "Time is finite."

"Time is an illusion. Relative. Fast when you want it to be slow. Slow when you want it to be fast. You think hours have gone by and it's only been minutes. Minutes are hours. You lose a day in a few seconds sometimes."

"Jesus. Dude. You're not helping me here."

Danny folds his arms and tilts his head to the side. "You can make it all the time in the world, or you can make it no time at all and just sit in this room for the next..." he looks at the numbers, "six days, twenty two hours, thirteen minutes and some odd seconds, and lose your fucking mind, and blow your lid on a live national broadcast like Wes and find yourself unable to work in this, or any other town, ever again."

"Definitely not helping."

"What the hell do you want me to do?" Danny mutters, frustration evident in his voice. "Stop time altogether?"

"No! Just... stop Her."

"Who?"

"This," Matt clenches his fists around the sides of the clock. "This is Her."

"You've given it a gender," Danny laughs, giving up on the attempt to take Matt seriously.

"I like to know everything about my mortal enemies."

"How many mortal enemies you got there?"

"One." Matt's eyes narrow. "Her. She's counting down the seconds, one by one, tick tock, tick tock. And you know what happens when She stops?"

"I'm almost afraid to ask, Captain Hook."

"I die."

Danny shakes his head and yanks open the drawers of Matt's desk. "Where are your pills?"

"The week starts again, Danny, it all starts again, never, ever ending. And Wendy... Wendy tells me this."

"I thought you said you were going to die. And who the holy hell is Wendy?"

"Wendy is the name of the clock. I'm not going to refer to her as Her anymore and if there's a Hook, there's a Wendy." Matt claps his hands together. "Hey, you know, I think I'm going to go crazy now." He grins, "See you on the other side."

"I think you're already there." Danny checks another drawer. "Where's your medication?"

Matt ignores him, starts pacing back and forth in front of Wendy. "If only I had more time. Jesus, I needed those twenty eight hours to write. I lost twenty eight hours and I will never get them back and Wendy knows it and she's mocking me."

"We're not having that discussion again. And I'm taking your pills away because you're wigged enough without them. Don't ask Jesus for help either."

"My back still hurts," Matt complains, looking over at Danny, now burrowing through the leftover papers on the desk.

"No, it doesn't. I'm denying you whatever pharmaceuticals you have left because that's not a road I want you going down. You're already certifiable and with all this extra pressure you're needlessly putting on yourself believe me, buddy, I am doing you a favor."

"Yeah, a bottle of Vicodin is something I wanna be giving you? Way to take one for the team, Danny."

"Matt!" Danny yells, grabbing him as he paces past. "Calm down."

"Sorry." Matt shoves a hand through his hair and sighs. "Jesus, stop giving me that look, Danny. It's not Wendy, of course it's not Wendy. It's what she represents. Seven days, Danny! And she doesn't even represent that because she's only seven days for one second. Seven days! I can't do that kind of turnaround."

Danny shrugs and moves back to stand with Matt in front of the clock. "You did it before."

"The show wasn't resting on our shoulders. I fuck this up, then you're fucked too, and Harry, Sim, Tom, fucking everyone."

"Hey we already decided I got the shoulders for it. Less than a week employed and you're losing it, and instead of celebrating with everyone downstairs, I'm up here having a conversation about an inanimate object that you, in your hypersensitive state, have named."

"Thanks."

"Matt, buddy, suck it up. You're looking at it wrong here. You have seven days to change the world."

"The world of television? I'm changing Neilson, man. Corporate sponsorship deals. Giving Jordan a pay rise if I pull it off."

"That is the world! That's us. Seven days to succeed or seven days to fail. We win this week, we do it again. We lose this week, we get fired, take a huge contractual payout and retire to the Bahamas to drink from coconut husks and work on our tans. Win or lose, Matty, either way, we're going to have a good time doing it."

"If I had a hammer I'll have a good time. A wrench. Some sort of tool-like device to beat in her face and then she will die and I won't." Matt grins, "It'll solve the problem once and for all."

Danny grips Matt's shoulders and stares at him. "If you don't shut up about the fucking clock and get your act together in the next two minutes, I'm going to beat your own head in with a hammer. You want to know what a problem looks like?"

"Hit me."

"A problem is next Friday when, for ninety minutes, we show the fucking network logo. You spend this week staring at the clock and you're not going to do what you do best, what you just won a fucking award for. Write! Your clock is nothing, Matt, it means nothing."

"Yeah," Matt nods. "Yeah, you're right, of course you're right. Hey, while we're on the subject," he folds his arms and stares pointedly at Danny, "what does your clock say?"

Danny pauses. A muscle ticks in his cheek, matching the countdown beside him. It's nine seconds before he speaks again. "Fourteen days, five hours, eighteen minutes."

"No seconds?"

"Right now? Twelve." Danny sighs and his eyes soften. "Time is everything, Matt, when it counts. And nothing when it doesn't. But a clock isn't time. It measures it, but it doesn't control it. It doesn't control you."

Matt blinks, and stares past Danny's head to Wendy's red numbers. Jesus. Four and a half days in Wes's office and he's as crazy as the old man. Danny's right, as usual. Wendy's nothing compared to the grand scheme of his life or his best friend's life. Nothing compares to them. Nothing compares to their show.

He closes his eyes and sees nothing behind his eyelids. He's starving again. His words were good. Their show was good. They got the laughs. They probably got the ratings. Next week his words will be better, the show will be better. They'll still get the laughs. They'll get the ratings.

"Could be worse," he says quietly.

"Worse than the network logo?" Danny asks.

Matt opens his eyes and smiles at him. "It could be you and I singing songs from Rent for ninety minutes."

Danny laughs, long and loud. "Pray it never comes to that. And you can't have the frat operatics next week, Matt. Comedy doesn't work twice."

"I got some ideas."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Matt says quietly, half a smile ghosting his face. "Sitting here, staring at her… it's coming back."

"I knew you couldn't turn that brilliant brain off for a second no matter how much you're losing it. You're gonna suck it up, Matt, and find a hobby to relax you because the way you've started out, you need to chill with something as soon as possible. Something not illegal."

"If I had a ping pong table in here one of the balls might mysteriously change trajectory midair and smash into Wendy."

Danny looks around the office and shakes his head. "No. How 'bout we get you a couple ping pong paddles with the ball on the string. I don't want the hassle of the prospective lawsuits when you smash the window instead and cut up some poor stagehand standing below." Matt nods. "Yeah, I guess I could practice my serve with a ball on a string."

"There you go then."

"Totally lost it, didn't I," Matt smiles ruefully.

Danny claps him lightly on the back. "Just a bit. You want something helpful?" He nods towards the clock. "Think of Wendy as a countdown to the start of the show. Not to your deadline of finishing it, but to the time when the country gets to see your words, your thoughts, your humor performed by some of the best people in this town."

"And the words of Ricky, Ron, and a bunch of staff hacks."

"It's our show, Matt. We call the shots, we're in control. Everyone answers to us, Wendy included."

Matt nods decisively. "Wendy included."

"Dump the ones who didn't impress you this week. And tell the Dicks absolutely no voices."

"They tried that on Monday," Matt smiles. "I put my foot down."

Danny grins back at him. "We got here just in time then."

"Yeah." Matt nods again. "Yeah." Together, they turn to stare at Wendy's numbers.

06 22 00 59

Matt sighs quietly, "She's not just a clock."

"I know," Danny nods. "But you're Matt Albie, and I think she needs to stick around for awhile and get to know the real you. The you who doesn't take shit from anyone."

"Yeeeah... I'd still prefer her not to be here."

"Tough. New beginnings, Matt. Savor this moment. New people to work with, new friends to make." Danny grins. "Try to make friends with Wendy Darling."

"I named the clock," Matt groans in sudden disbelief. "Can I trade her in for one with blue numbers? Blue's more calming. Relaxing."

"No."

"Okay."

Danny's hand rests lightly on the back of Matt's neck. When he speaks again his voice is quiet and firm. "I got your back, Matt. Even if it still hurts."

"And I got yours," Matt replies softly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Danny's smile, matching his own.

06 22 00 00

"Two hours gone. A hundred sixty six left. Want to waste a few of them at a party in our honor?" Danny's hand squeezes Matt's neck gently as he guides him towards the door. "Suzanne organized a cake for us."

"What kind of cake?"

"I don't know," Danny shrugs. "But I've been told it has our faces on it."

"I love that girl already."

Danny, standing on the catwalk over the studio, looks around with a smile. "I love this place."

"Me too."

Matt's smile is wide and relaxed as he bounds down the stairs after Danny.

06 21 59 30