It all started very innocently. Six of us on a Saturday night. A bottle of whiskey. Windows open, warm breeze flowing through the living room. A look, A desire. A building of intensity. We were young, reckless and bored. We wanted to live like rock stars, even if it was only for a few hours. We knew the gift of youth was attached to a clock. And that clock would have two huge bells attached to it just waiting tell us that this was all we had time for.
Soon after we tried the traditions of the keys. But it always seemed like a means to an end. We wanted the night itself to hold that magic and the fire. We wanted to walk into the flames upon arrival. Names would be drawn once the guests arrived. No one could come late, and no one could come alone. The groups got larger. The booze flowed like rivers across bodies of flesh and bone.
At the height of this journey it became a highly sought after club. Not everyone was allowed in. The meetings were secret, the locations unknown until an hour before. Work weeks would drag in the anticipation of the weekend. An hour turned to two, turning into days.
A cabin for the weekend, buried in the snow on top of a Nevada mountain. 24 people. We would call these meetings Clocks. Forty-eight hours with unlimited favors. The cost to get in…a weeks pay. 12 men, 12 women. Every four hours a switch. No turning back, no passing go, no collecting two hundred dollars. But walking into work on Monday morning knowing that you were a part of something extraordinary.
We knew it wouldn’t last forever. We were riding on the winds of reckless abandon, wanting to not only sow the wild oats in a passage of rite. But to make an indentation in time, reflecting in a ripple that would soon vanish yet never fade.
For a brief moment, there were no need for keys. The doors were unlocked and we were free. Passing time would bring the keys, and the keys would grow and grow, We would become weighed down and held prisoner by the keys on the chains that we carry.