The Clock

Terminal City calls the SkyTrain the Clock. All day it moves above and beneath the streets, closing doors, sounding chimes, crossing itself and pulling away again. Thousands of people use it to get somewhere. Almost none of them notice what else it is doing.

The trains do not follow the rhythm of the city. The city follows the trains.

A door closes at Commercial–Broadway and, somewhere across town, a light changes. A train enters a station just as music starts behind an apartment window. Two trains pass each other above the street and a hundred unrelated things seem to happen together.

Usually the coincidences are small enough to ignore. A pedestrian reaches the curb exactly as the signal changes. Rain begins between two songs. The beat in your headphones lands perfectly beneath the door chime. Once you notice it, you start noticing it everywhere.

The Clock does not tell Terminal City what time it is. It distributes time. As long as the trains keep their rhythm, distant parts of the city remain close enough to agree on when now is.

Occasionally the Clock drifts. Only by a second or two. That's enough. Music feels slightly late. People arrive just after someone has left. Conversations overlap. Crosswalks seem impatient. Repair People stop what they're doing and look toward the tracks.

Then a train passes. The doors close. The city catches up.