Better Late Than Ever
by Jeff Underwood
May 3, 1831
London is wet. The rain has flooded Father Time’s courtyard, leaving little chance for our croquet match to continue. I had been playing a most friendly contest with my siblings, Early, Timely, and Late, so its continuation is certainly desirable. I write now from my childhood bedchamber. The pillicock engravings on the desk delight me nearly as much as they did those days long ago. Out the window, I watch Father Time’s groundskeeper tend to the torrent of rainwater laying waste to the various gardens. He is a good man, Groundskeeper Jack. I often enjoy our long-winded conversations and I know he is well and good to be called a decent family man. Tonight we celebrate a far greater family man, though, my father, Father Time. Nary a one of us believes him when he says he will be three-thousand, two-hundred and fifty-two years old. Seems like not yet just yesterday he was turning three-thousand, two-hundred and fifty-one! But time is funny and Father is time so… Anyways, it’s been fun to see Mother Nature in such a good mood. She can be so temperamental and broody! But the day saw easy rain and we thanked her for it. She even baked Father Time his favorite cake, German chocolate! I think I will venture down and treat myself to a slice. Till we speak again, dear diary!
– Never
May 4, 1831
Oh diary, today was utter dog dredge. Father Time wasn’t satisfied with a single night of birthday celebrations so he demanded we dine out at his favorite victualing house. Thus, we all piled into and onto the carriage and bumbled all the way out to the financial district so Father Time could have his Sweetings. He once said their oysters are the best thing he’s ever eaten in his life and he’s broken bread with Jesus! The rest of the family loves them, as well, but I can’t say my feelings are mutual. Slippery little buggars, those oysters! At any rate, we’re at the house and everyone orders their oysters and I order just a burger and a shake, nothing crazy, ya know. I tell ya, if we hadn’t been caught up in another one of Father Time’s stupendous New Year’s Eve stories (this one involving Napoleon, Duroc, and Mozart), we would have taken more notice of the time it took for our food to arrive. Father Time is especially perceptible to that kind of stuff. Finally, Early’s oysters arrived at the table. He complained about them being slightly undercooked but he wolfed them down. Then Timely had her plate arrive, along with Mother Nature’s and Father Time’s, all cooked to perfection. Late and I watched them nearly finish their plates and they were even starting to lick the plates when Late’s oysters finally showed up to the table. They were obviously overcooked but he actually likes his food that way so he annihilated them. Now everyone had their food except me but I figured, hey, it’s a burger, probably just needs to cook longer. I like them well done. Well, we didn’t see the waitress again until she brought over the bill and when I asked her about it she said it was going to be out at any moment. So we waited another forty minutes before deciding just forget it. The waitress said thanks for coming when we left but I didn’t say thanks back. I’m so sick of this happening every time we go out to eat!
– Never
May 5, 1831
I heard the most curious of phrases today, diary. My brother Late and I were down at the Westminster Public Library returning some overdue books when up to the front desk barges the old librarian, Miss Cranks. She had some not-so-great words for us about the sanctity of time and how disappointed our parents would be if they knew how late our library books were, yadda, yadda, yadda. But she got pretty quiet after Late busted out the overdue books and tossed them onto the counter. It was an absolutely ace move! And so Miss Cranks was logging the returns in the ledger, muttering to herself as she does, and upon finishing, she looked up to Late and I and said, verbatim, “We’re happy to finally have these books returned, gentlemen. Better late than never, after all.” Better late than never? What does that even mean? I looked over at Late after she said it but he was just staring off and smiling wide. I wonder if he knew what she meant by that. Maybe I’ll ask him tomorrow but if you find out first, diary, let me know. Thanks.
– Never
May 6, 1831
Oh, diary, how I loathe my Uncle Tony! I loathe him so! I’ve told you about him in the past and how he doesn’t have any time powers but that doesn’t stop him from dictating how all things shall pass. He’s Father Time’s older brother so you can probably imagine that dynamic. One is an all-powerful time-god and the other works in the Department of Agriculture. Uncle Tony does a lot of compensating. But they get along well and Dad is still trying to squeeze out some birthday love so he invited Uncle Tony to come over tonight to play board games and what have you. Father Time decided he wanted to play Kriegspiel so we began to split into teams. Here’s where the night turned, diary. Now, I’m used to being picked last in all things competitive, or, hell, never picked at all. It comes with the name. But Father Time and Mother Nature had been kind about bending the laws of time lately so that I could have as much fun as the other children. Instead of never being picked to participate in croquet, I am simply last to be picked now. So I was so excited to play because I love Kriegspiel and I could see Timely was just about to pick me for her team when I felt Uncle Tony’s hand fall on my shoulder. “Grave consequences await those that meddle with the sanctity of time,” he says. So I’m like, “Righto, Uncle Tony, I just wanna play a little Kriegspiel.” And I tried to pull away from him but he just gripped my shoulder tighter and repeated that same line. I looked at Father Time but he just shrugged as little brothers do. Thanks, Father Time. Mother Nature at least flashed lightning in her eyes before yielding to Uncle Tony’s demand. “Can I at least be umpire?” I asked my ratbag of an uncle. “Never!” He shouted over and over until we were all like, oy, we get it. And so I didn’t play the game but watched as they divided up into adults vs kids and then brought in Groundskeeper Jack to be the umpire. Such an insult to my ability as a time-god and Kriegspiel player! Finally, the evening ended with a steady win for the adults, and Uncle Tony was almost out the door when he just had to turn around and brag, “You’ll never beat Father Time, Mother Nature, and your dear old Uncle Tony!” I don’t know why he had to stare at me while he said it but it just made me feel even worse. I hate Uncle Tony. I won’t cry because he doesn’t deserve that satisfaction. But, damnit, why do people have to be so mean! Thanks for listening, diary, I love you.
– Never
May 7, 1831
Well, work sure was a drag today. Father wanted me at the factory to ensure nothing ever arrived in my department despite me assuring him that nothing ever did. “Father Time, you are Father Time, you see all planes of time and space, you know nothing is coming into the Department of Never.” I told him this, but he just said to be in at eight. I got there at eight-fifteen only because the roads are still so damn wet and the carriage rolls like a bumbuggy! But Father Time laid into me, nonetheless, giving me one of his tried and true lectures on the ‘sanctity of time’. Bullocks, I really don’t care about being on time when THERE IS NO WORK FOR ME TO DO. I sat around the office watching Barb and Mel run community theatre lines. Even they know our department is useless! It’d be nice to have some kind of purpose, diary. Eh, tomorrow’s another day. Goodnight.
– Never
May 7, 1831
Better Late than Never! Better Late than Never! I heard it four fucking times today, diary, and that was just while walking the flooded back streets well away from the main square. And the words weren’t even directed my way but seemed to have been placed into the lexicon of commoners all over. Men and women using these words as justification for tardiness and lazy efforts. Bah! Why do they heap such praise onto a brother of mine with such slipshod practices and shameless abandon of the sanctity of time? Curse him and curse them all!
– Never
May 8, 1831
Feeling rather delightful today, diary! The night’s sleep felt as if I had been stork-wrapped and upon waking I found myself in the most amazing of spirits. After breakfast, Late and I have scheduled ourselves another rousing match of croquet. Despite having never lost to my dear, younger brother, I find myself increasing in unease at his rapid development in the sport. However, if he should ever overtake myself in skill and finally find himself on the receiving end of victory, then I shall swallow my pride, congratulate him so, and help guide him forward in his quest for croquet dominance. I love my dear brother Late after all!
– Never
May 8, 1831
LATE IS DEAD. Late is fucking dead, diary. And I know it didn’t have to be but the universe compelled it so! I am a time-god, in the end, and one time-god can only take so much torment! I lost the croquet match. But through no fault of my own. It was that damn groundskeeper, Groundskeeper Jack. See, Never and I had been enjoying our contest for some time and were nearing the finish when that pesky Groundskeeper Jack came to the fence for a heckle. It started innocently enough, him calling fouls each time my mallet met the ball or him laughing in a fit each time I missed the wicket. It wasn’t much a bother until he hollered a couple of unsavories along the lines of: “Has little brother Late always been better than you, Never?” and “What’s better than Never, Never?” They were teases and I could see them for that, allowing them to roll off my back at first. Late, however, began to take them as cheers and used the jeers as fuel for a champion’s performance. As stated previously, diary, I have never lost a match to Late. I would rather perish altogether than lose a match to Late. And so when he cracked that final winning wicket with his ball, hatred burned inside me at Sol’s heat. But I prepared myself for the gracious defeat, lending my hand out for the congratulatory shake. And instead of shaking my hand and being a most gracious champion, Late simply gazed down towards my hand and then into my eyes. His smile spoke for him before his mouth did so I knew the words that were coming. “Looks like it really is better Late than Never,” he said to me as he walked by. And I just fucking lost it! One swing, diary. That’s all it took to bring the pompous power of Late down to his dead knees. His head split open like the grapefruits we used to mallet as youngsters. When Groundskeeper Jack saw this, he totally lost his cool, of course. But Groundskeeper Jack is old and slow and he tires fast and he can’t protect himself much. So I made quick work of him and now he’s buried beneath his precious tulips, diary. Look, I didn’t want to kill him but, I mean, witnesses? Yuck. Alright, I’ve got to get back down there and make sure the palm leaves are still covering the spot I buried Late in. Not a bad day, diary!
– Never
May 9, 1831
Unsurprisingly, the family has been a bit worried about Late’s disappearance but I managed to convince them that he ran off for the week with the stable girl from down the way. It was hard to convince them of such a story as Late has never missed a day of work and so when he didn’t show up after his usual late entrance I had to do much satisfying. But satisfied they were and now I am so. Father Time even trusted me with Late’s work since he wouldn’t be in to tend to it and because my department is so bare. I gotta say, Late’s job really isn’t all that tough. Sure, the workload is enormous with all the late arrivals, late pregnancies, late registrations…but it beats NEVER getting any work. I can handle this.
– Never
May 10, 1831
Oh goodness, diary, what a mistake I’ve made! Why did I think I could run the Department of Never and take on all of Late’s work? Bloody well stupid, that thought! Obviously, I am getting my arse kicked. WHY ARE THERE SO MANY DAD’S COMING HOME FROM WORK LATE? Now that they’re being processed in the Department of Never they’re not coming home at all. Never! By all accounts, they just sit there and stare at their office walls, stuck in some kind of time-limbo. And what the hell am I supposed to do about it? I didn’t go to school for Late, I studied Never, damnit! I need to fix this ASAP. I need to bring Late back.
– Never
May 10, 1831
Ok, I’ve got his body. Had to dig it up from under the pile of palm leaves but thankfully the decomposition hasn’t had too much of a run at him. He still kinda looks like a time-god! Now, the tricky part is going to be bringing him back to life. I never took biology in school so I’m really not too sure what I’m doing but I do have one trusty resource. An old graverobber lives down the block with whom I’ve had some lively chats. He’s never said anything about bringing a corpse back to life but some of the tales he told lead me to believe he can get it done. I do worry about his hands as they lack any kind of steady countenance but we don’t need a Super-Late. Hell, we don’t even need the Late of old. Just something to pass as time.
– Never
May 11, 1831
Capital news, diary! Late is back once more! And hardly a mare could notice a difference in the lad. Hell, he’s even more late than ever! Late enough to convince Father Time and Mother Nature of his return, at least. Needless to say, my time in the Department of Late was forgettable and Father Time made that apparent when he recalled all the Dad’s back from the Never-realm and returned them to a natural state of late. No matter, I had a smashing time. And I know some of the Dad’s did, too! We’ll see how good of a time they’ll be having when little Frankenlate is bumbling around the office. I am filled with delight at the prospect of that three-ring!
– Never
May 11, 1831
No, diary, I will not bring back Groundskeeper Jack.
– Never
May 12, 1831
Diary, have you heard of the word ‘kismet’? I can’t help but feel a tad bit regretful with how this whole ordeal has played itself out. Perhaps Late didn’t deserve any of this and that I was a wee more reactionary than I ought to have been. If I should happen upon my dear brother then I think I shall divulge the exact details of how these last few days have played out. Our relationship has seemed stilted since his resurrection. I do not enjoy it much, I must say. I love my dear brother after all.
– Never
May 13, 1831
Mother’s mercy, diary, we have a massive problem! Groundskeeper Jack is back! And he is mad! Oh diary, my regrets only intensify with each passing day’s transgressions. And today was most regretful. I saw Late and I told him what happened, everything. I’m not sure if it was because we could only scoop half his brains back into his head or what, but he wasn’t even mad when I told him. He was more concerned about Groundskeeper Jack which then made me mad. So I made him promise me that he wouldn’t dig up Groundskeeper Jack and that he wouldn’t take him to my graverobber friend and that they wouldn’t rebuild him but he said NO PROMISE! And now Jack’s bloody well back. I tried to apologize to Groundskeeper Jack but he just stared at me, drooling heavily. Eventually, I had to softly sidestep his outstretched hands as he slowly raised them towards my throat. I shall be avoiding those hands in the future, I do say! In all seriousness, diary, I do hope Father Time finds reason to terminate his employment. Be well, diary.
– Never
May 3, 1831
Well, Father Time heard about what happened and reversed all of time. All the good I did for naught. Then he gave me a lot of grief about the ‘sanctity of time’ and told Mother Nature what I had done. And so, London is wet again.
– Never
BIO
Chicago based writer Jeff Underwood has a strong affinity for comedy and the absurd. He was born into a large family in the mountains of Arizona and was forced into weaponizing comedy as a means for attaining affection. His humor has led to laughs from the likes of famous men such as Sacha Baron Cohen and Kurt Thomas. Check out his Instagram @horstapony for more work of a similar nature.
