Gimme Shelter: Do you know what time it is?

I’m one of those people who is never on time.

No, not late. I’m always early.

Reaching my destination, I have to walk around blocks, drive in circles, drink too much coffee in diners or cafes so I’m wound like a meth fiend when I show up on time, saying something on the order of, “Hi! Yeah! It’s me!” and my host or strangers I have the appointment with saying something on the order of, “Uh, you all right?”

Once I phoned the author Tim Robinson for a date to interview him for a newspaper article. He didn’t give a time, but rather said to “just come by tomorrow morning.”

Banging on the door at 7 a.m., it was opened by Tim’s wife, Máiréad, in her robe with bed hair and panic-stricken eyes, expecting a firefighter or a police officer. I introduced myself. She stared, the panic in her eyes turning to flint, and said what I’ve heard too many times: “Do you know what time it is?”

I could have countered by quoting the Bard: “Better three hours too soon than a minute too late,” but she was in no mood for anything except to see the back of me. As the door shut in my face I heard, “Later? Please?”

When I arrived at 10, Máiréad said, with a lovely smile as she put a mug of tea in my hand, that it was really no shame to admit my problem and seek help.

Tim generously said he, too, had the affliction. “Years of deadlines,” he said, “completely mangles the mind’s sense of time.”

For the chronically late — what is it with these people? — the cellphone is a godsend. I have a couple of friends I can count on to text half an hour before we’re to meet with the “running late” thing. Running? No, if you were running you’d be here, damnit.

Being late saves lives, of course. How many time do you read of people who miss the plane that crashes because they were, yes, running late? Being early, you can find us in the obit column. Franklin D. Roosevelt tied a bow on the idea: “I think we consider too much the good luck of the early bird and not enough the bad luck of the early worm.”

It’s a relief that I’m not alone. Barbara Jaffe, Ed.D., a fellow in UCLA’s Department of Education, has written, “I know that nothing catastrophic would happen if I were minutes late to an appointment; nevertheless, I begin to sweat. My on-time legacy comes from eons of programming along with a ‘time-sensitive’ genetic component. My family’s ‘arriving late gene’ is completely missing; instead, I come from a rather long line of (extremely) early people.”

I can relate.

I get it from my father. With a wife and five children, he alone was on time, meaning early. Getting organized for a family outing, like Sunday Mass, visits to friends, or starting a road trip was like a mini midnight Black Friday at the mall, and my father was always at the door, waiting, in turn looking at his watch or scowling at us dashing around.

Once I was being shepherded to put a move on by my older sister Peggy. She was gently pushing me in the back and guiding me toward the door. She put a cap on my head and then I followed Peg as she pulled me by the arm to the window where the rest of the tribe stood, all looking out.

There, in the driveway was Dad behind the wheel of the car, motor running, staring straight ahead.

It was good we were inside because it allowed us one of those cherished moments in life when you laugh until you ache.

Pavlov had it down — if I’ve got to be somewhere, my mind is dashing here and there, and the ghost of Dad is standing, scowling.

But it’s not only ghosts, but dreams that drive my obsession. Once, Mary and I went on vacation with our friend Marilyn and checked into an inn. It was run by a couple; a charming woman and a not-so-charming husband. He was a German who seemed to think being an innkeeper was the same as commanding a battalion under siege on the western front, ordering people around, barking at you if you asked for information.

The first night we went out to dinner and Marilyn decided she would be the designated driver and I would take the role the following evening. That night, having a nightmare of being late for something, I came awake to find myself shaking Mary’s shoulders, looking wild-eyed into her face, imploring her to tell me, “Am I the designated German?”

Again, after the shock, non-stop laughing. When we’d finally stop, one of us would, on an outtake of breath, just giggle a little, and then we were gone again, worthless for minutes.

But hey, what time is it? Oh, no. Gotta go.