JOSHUA ROSENBERG

TIME RUNNING OUT

The government decides to get everyone together in a huge field, on a Nebraska farm several miles long. After months of committee meetings the Department of Health and Human Services officials in Washington settle on the age range--30 to 38. They get all the information from the master database, the same one they use to track down people who never file tax returns. Then they send out a mailing for unmarried men and women of the proper age. The media fervor intensifies. The junior senator from Nebraska responds to a young reporter's question about frivolous expenditures during a fiscal crisis. "For once we wanted to help the American public with something they care about on a gut level, not some intangible hokum like increasing R&D funding or tinkering with interest rates."

When the day arrives the feds rent fleets of buses and vans to transport people to different parts of the farm. They compile a list containing hundreds of questions, read aloud by government officials with stentorian voices that force people to make decisions one way or the other. Like dancing and loud parties? Go to the east end of the field in bus number four. Like staying at home and quiet nights in front of the fire? Go to the west end in bus number three. Not sure? Stay where you are. Prefer a mate of a particular religion or race? No judgments made here, just take the appropriate bus and no one will hold it against you. The questions get more and more specific as the day goes on, and the groups increase in number and decrease in size. Do you think it's okay for men to cry? Will you only mate with a vegetarian? Are you afraid of horses? Do you like professional wrestling, and if not, will you at least tolerate a spouse who watches it regularly? (If so, use minivan number six). Do you think of the ocean as tranquil or foreboding?

Despite months of intricate planning, problems arise. Hundreds of recent immigrants weep in the middle of the field, not knowing enough English to understand all the questions broadcast over the elaborate public address system. Blind people are flown in by the government on 747s but forgotten, left to try and find the proper buses and vans by feel. Government officials stand three abreast on the giant, temporary stage, complaining about the heat. A woman walks away from the farm and back to her car, waving a friendly goodbye to everyone she passes and apologizing profusely: "The chemistry just wasn't there for me with any of those guys in sector seventeen south." An overzealous federal marshal looks through his binoculars and announces the names of those people in sector five north who haven't been mingling enough. A shy man named Henry hears his name over the loudspeaker and breaks into a dead run, toward the helicopters hovering over endless corn fields.

Randomly placed Secret Service agents record widely differing reactions to the situation. After the first set of fifty questions, Margaret, an unemployed auto worker from Michigan, and Harris, a bespectacled bookstore clerk from Rhode Island, begin talking to each other in sector four east. Despite their common answers, the conversation ends in less than two minutes. Two drug-free, athletic types from opposite ends of New Jersey start tongue-kissing right in the middle of sector eight south until they hear the announcement: "Those who have found a potential mate are asked to return to the parking lot to relieve overcrowding."

In sector twenty-three east the first real trouble develops. A group of fifty female vegans grows impatient with a group of fifty men, insisting that if the men are only quasi-vegetarians and eat milk and eggs they should be in another sector. The men refuse to admit they are wrong, and an FBI agent has to be dispatched in a golf cart to restore order. Responding to the authority figure, the men admit their error and move to the proper sector. Another confrontation with larger implications for the whole operation develops in sector five west, where one angry woman confronts a large group of men. She screams that women care much more about the whole process because they have their biological clocks to consider. A computer repairman wearing a "Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places" button silences the woman briefly with his retort: "Yeah, for us it's just a matter of companionship and love for the rest of our lives versus loneliness and despair. No biggie."

Government psychologists decide to distribute the second round of questions on colorful forms instead of reading them aloud. The mingling stops as the project participants fill out the forms with the number two pencils provided. Margaret considers each question carefully. Do you drink international coffees regularly? Do you get more satisfaction out of bowling a strike or completing a difficult split for a spare? Do you find nurses, doctors, or any other professional in a white uniform threatening in any way?

After the first twelve hours the Director of Illumination mounts spotlights on all the sector identification poles so the process can continue in the dark. The eastern sectors are covered with soft grass, and those who want to sleep are bussed eastward. The burly Sleep Coordinator provides pillows and sleeping bags for those who request them, but many people stay awake all night to avoid missing any opportunities. Five grey-suited volunteers from the Surgeon General's office hand out cards so people will remember their most recent sector designation in the morning; each card has a "Helpful Hint" about sexually transmitted diseases printed on the back. After a day filled with rejections, Harris from Rhode Island squints while trying to read the back of his sector designation card. He reaches for his glasses before realizing the text below the "Herpes Made Simple" heading has been mistakenly printed in Arabic. In the middle of the night he wakes up and spends ten minutes staring at a redheaded woman who keeps muttering to herself: "I will not settle. I will not settle. I deserve more."

On the second day the government people begin to look aggravated. Even lower-level employees do not want to clean up the partially eaten box lunches left the previous day by people in the diet-conscious yet messy sector. The Director of Project Groundskeeping curses under his breath.

A man in sector nine south cautions his sector-mates: "Over an entire life span physical attractiveness doesn't mean that much." But the women keep gathering around Brian, a ruggedly handsome blue jeans model, and men start slipping in from sectors seven and eight south to talk to Jane, a weatherperson for an Atlanta TV station who formerly jumped out of cakes for a living. According to the most recent computer printouts only 6 percent of the original group have left with potential life partners.

Margaret the auto worker marches through a mile worth of sectors to the stage. She corners a staff assistant to the Attorney General, a power-hungry Harvard Law graduate who has been assigned to this project as a punishment for leaking information. She voices her concern about divorced people being allowed to participate: "I met this guy back in sector four southeast, yesterday, but he had been married twice . I didn't come here for that , for Christ's sake!"

Several government officials continue to monitor the operation by placing spies in the midst of selected sectors. One of the spies returns with a report of abnormal amounts of hair-tossing, smiling, and intense eye contact in sector twelve east. "But almost no-one is pairing off," the spy says, pulling his wedding ring out of his pocket and placing it back on his finger. Meanwhile a down-on-his-luck, bearded civil engineering professor loses interest, pulls out a tiny, hand-held metal detector, and goes to the sleeping area to search for loose coins dropped in the night.

As the government officials grow weary, the loudspeaker announcements change. "Remember folks, all you're looking for here is a potential mate. Once you leave the government-controlled area the rest is up to you. Even the suggestion of compatibility is a start. This is the last day we have use of this land."

After being rebuffed by seven different men in a one hour period, Margaret finds that the rejections are not getting any easier to take. "Each one's still a slap in the face," she confides to a woman in her sector. "I thought if they were all clustered in two days like this they wouldn't be as painful. I thought I'd become . . . what do you call it . . . desensitized."

As the sun begins to fall from its noontime peak, more and more people are leaving the farm with partners. However an exit poll shows that most of those leaving are city-dwellers, and one senior official begins to worry. "I hope they're not leaving just to avoid spending any more time on a farm. And people shouldn't feel they need to pair up for appearances sake. They know they're welcome to leave at any time. Any time."

The Department of Health and Human Services workers gather around the mainframe, firing off various suggestions for improving the project's success rate.

"Maybe we should start with a new set of questions for people who are left."

"Maybe we asked the wrong things to begin with."

"But don't most couples contain an introvert and an extrovert?"

"I don't know, maybe we shouldn't have asked those questions about financial security."

A low-level White House staffer with a walkie-talkie voices his frustration to his colleague in sector seventeen north. "Can't these people just . . . pair up? I mean it's been two days, the operation was failure-proof. What the hell happened? We had the best psychologists, the best computer programs, the models showed three-quarters of them would be matched up and gone by now."

Four harried psychologists huddling around the central data bank agree that the fault must be with the project participants, not with the plan. "But maybe we should have had a question about indecisiveness," someone suggests. A reply comes quickly from one of the computer programmers. "We did. Remember? That question about the grassy knoll was supposed to give us that info."

With two hours before the sunset deadline, the government declares an "open sector period": people may wander into any sector they choose, even if they did not answer the proper questions in the proper way. A few minutes later Margaret and Harris find themselves in the same sector again. Margaret squeezes through the crowd and tries to strike up another conversation with him.

"So. Do you like working in a bookstore? I bet you've read everything there is to read."

"Not really. I get sick of books sometimes."

"Uh huh. I know what you mean. I used to get pretty sick of putting the same damn part in mid-sized GM cars. You ever see those guys in the commercials talking about the satisfaction of making a tiny contribution to a superior product?"

Harris nods and adjusts his glasses.

"A bunch of crap. One hundred percent, premium grade horse patootie." Margaret takes a photo out of her purse. "This is my niece, Stephanie. Cute, huh? You ever think about having kids, Harry? Can I call you Harry? People must call you Harry."

"It's just Harris."

"Okay Harris. Someday if I have a kid, I'm going to sing it to sleep. "Over The Rainbow" maybe. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Yes. It would."

"You like cuddling, Harris? That's ninety percent of what I want out of a relationship. Ninety percent cuddling, ten percent moral and emotional support. What do you think?"

"I . . . I think cuddling's fine."

"You think it's fine. Loosen up a little. Come on, I know you're alive in there. I remember how you answered the questions yesterday. You cried during a movie or television show during the past year. I know you've got some romance in you."

"It was a documentary on the Khmer Rouge."

"That's all right. And we both like Marvin Gaye, right? Let's give it a shot. Remember what they said at the beginning, there's nothing . . . what was it? Legally something."

"Legally binding."

"Right. There's nothing legally binding about leaving here with me. It's as much of a commitment as leaving a bar with somebody. And we both know how much that means the next day."

"I . . . don't know. I'll definitely be leaving soon, but it might be alone. I'm not sure I really know you very well."

"How are you ever going to get to know anyone well if you don't take a chance?"

"You're a very nice person, Margaret, but . . . ."

"Okay, you made your point." Margaret turns her back and walks toward another sector. "Have a good life," she calls back over her left shoulder.

Impatient government employees begin dismantling the stage long before sunset, casting occasional glances toward the hundreds of people still milling around on the farm. "All those committee meetings," one of them says. "All those memos. And it worked for less than 10 percent of the citizens invited."

"Maybe more pre-event marketing," says another.

Forty minutes before the deadline Margaret is still wandering from sector to sector, while Harris makes his way to the parking lot, alone. As he pulls out of his space he hears the "music of your life" station identification jingle on his car radio. In his rear view mirror he sees the redheaded woman who did not want to settle sitting in a car with a smiling, beady-eyed man. He suspects that she has, in fact, settled. Harris turns the car around and starts to head back toward the farm. After only fifty yards he encounters a line of honking cars heading in the other direction. He decides bucking the traffic trend will be too much trouble and makes another U-turn, driving into the twilight. With his left hand on the steering wheel, he adjusts the controls so the music plays at ear-splitting volume and the air conditioner blows extremely cold air. There will be at least a ninety minute delay as cars wait to merge on to the eastbound highway.