I have to write a novel (the conclusion). I straightened up and wiped my face-smudge off the capsule while I stammered an explanation to the security guard. I blurted out a bit about how the rolled up white paper suspended inside the capsule was my essay. I told him I'd been worried that the time capsule might be opened on its twentieth anniversary. I told him about attending the ceremony back in 1986.
By the time I mentioned the Cats girls I realized I was rambling.
"See, that's my name," I said, pointing out the "Carrington Vanston" etched in the plaque as if that settled the matter. I definitely pointed to it in a "no need to tazer me, no siree" sort of way.
He had walked around the capsule while I was babbling, and he looked at the plaque. I steeled myself to explain in more detail about my novelist-or-failure deadline, about this blog, and perhaps even about how Timothy Findley stole my pen but was dead now. I made a mental note not to make that sound like a causal relationship.
Then I realized he wasn't looking back. He was just standing there staring at the plaque. This went on for some time: me looking at him, him looking at the plaque, me not mentioning Findley.
Finally, he turned back to me and said: "It's 2005."
This is not what I was expecting him to say. It didn't have the words "don't touch" in it. It didn't have the words "escorted from the premises" in it. It didn't even have that ominous "sir" in it. I was confused.
This is a precise transcription of the next exchange between us, word for word as far as I can recall:
Me: "I'msorrywhat?" (said as one word)
Him: "Pardon?"
Me: "I mean…pardon?"
Him: "What?"
Me: "What what? I mean, which what? What did I say, or what did you say?"
Him: "It's 2005."
Me: "Oh. Okay."
aside:
At this point my mind wandered, as it often does. I was reminded of a favorite gag from high school. I used to rush up to people in malls and ask them what time it was. When they'd look at their watch I'd say "No, the year? What YEAR is it?!?" When they'd tell me the year I'd say something like "So it worked! It WORKED!" and then I'd run away laughing triumphantly. I used to love doing that.
end of aside
Him: "It's 2005, not 2006."
Oh, right. So it was.
The rest of the exchange with the security guard was standard "please don't touch the capsule" stuff, then he left me to it. Strange. I would've kept my eye on someone like me.
I'd like to say I had mixed up the year because I'd gotten so caught up in the "twentieth anniversary" idea. But the reality is I often get the year wrong anyway. My cheques still have "19__" on them, which I cross out on the rare times I need to use one and write in some vaguely early 21st Century-ish year. I'm usually not off by more than one or two.
I'd also like to mention that of the scores of you who have written in during this extended blog story only one of you pointed out the errant year. (Here's a shout-out to sharp-eyed Postmodern Sass, one of my favorite bloggers and a fellow Torontonian.)
So it was 2005 (and for all I know it still is). It had only been 19 years since my essay had been sequestered. The twentieth anniversary wasn't for a full year and two days.
I had tons of time!
In fact, I had even more time than you might think because I'd already read the true uncorking date on the plaque. I'd read it as soon as I got there, of course, but I thought it would be more fun to string you along a bit on the blog. I'm a meanie.
Below the disappointing 1986 date on the plaque was the all-important second date, the date of my deadline:
"TO BE OPENED DECEMBER 3, 2011."
I had six years and two days to go! Six long wonderful amazing incredible and most important of all probably sufficient years.
It was the perfect result. Much less and I'd likely have no chance to get a novel written and published in time. Much more and I'd probably slip back into the lazy "oh there's lots of time" mentality that got me into this mess in the first place.
The giant pink tower didn't seem nearly so intimidating when I left, but that's probably because it was cold out.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a novel to write.
