6:45 am
I wake up and and hit the snooze button for 7 minutes and close my eyes.
6:52 am
In my dream, a black dove lands on my knee and looks me directly in the eye just as the alarm goes off. I've never understood why the alarm goes off, when really it's turning on. Either way, I turn it off, allowing my cat to rub it's whiskers on my face for two minutes before rolling out of bed. My left foot always hits the ground first.
6:54 am
I jumped into the shower. Shampoo. Rinse. Wash face. Apply conditioner. Grab soap. Left armpit. Right armpit. Cock. Asshole. Left foot. Right foot. Rinse soap. Rinse conditioner. Exit shower. Floss. Apply face lotion. Brush teeth.
7:09 am
I get dressed. Underwear. Socks. Deodorant. Collared shirt, buttoned up, collar popped. Tie, double windsor knot. Shirt collar down. Pants on. Shirt tucked in. Pants latched, zipper zipped up. Belt strapped on one belt loop at a time. Beatle boots. Leather watch. Cuff links from my brother's wedding. Suit jacket, top button buttoned. Wool overcoat, all buttons buttoned. Done. Today is cold, but still precise. It always takes me precisely thirty minutes to get dressed.
7:39 am
I moved from the bedroom to the living room, around the couch and into the kitchen.
7:54 am (actual time, 7:40am)
Once I leave the bedroom, I enter into a new time zone, as all of my clocks are set fourteen minutes ahead so as to get me moving. I knew I would have time to hit up the coffee shop for a buttery almond croissant and quadruple shot of espresso before work, so I skipped the usual routine of 1 tablespoon sunflower butter on a piece of gluten-free toasted bread.
7:55 am
I see a black dove fly across my window as I open the door to the hallway. I stop for a moment. This is not how I had planned things. I think of The Beatles song, "Blackbird," then my beatle boots. I'm not one for omens or signs.
7:56 am
I walk down my hallway and down the fire escape stairs. I hate waiting for the elevator. The fire escape stairs smell like urine from the homeless, but it's efficient. Precise. I exit the building and pop my wrist out of my jacket to look at my watch. A gift from my grandfather. My grandfather who died last week. I was the only one at his funeral. He was part Native American. He had long black hair.
8:00 am
I'm six minutes ahead of schedule when I open the screen door to my neighborhood coffee shop. Paul, the comedian who is waiting for his big break, who sits at the same table every morning says, "Word, suit. Getting the quad again?" I nod as the door slams behind me from the tightly wound spring hinge. If I owned this place, I would spray the hinges with WD-40. But I don't. So I don't.
8:09 am
I nod hello to Meredith. Mer. M. The Barista. She has ginger red hair that resembles the flow of Hawaiian lava, blue eyes that are so bright you have to squint to look into them...and a tan. The tan is only in the sense that her pasty white skin is covered in freckles that have expanded from the sun and are all nearly touching each other. "The regular," she asks. I nod today the same way I nodded last week. I have yet to speak today.
8:10 am
With my nod, I order two espressos, knowing that each one comes as a double shot. I like eating the foam with the tiny spoon. The hipster with a mustache behind me judges me. He probably thinks I'm wasting dishwater from using two cups. Internally, I tell him to shave his face, cause he looks like an idiot, but I remember that I was young once and thought that my stylistic rebellion would matter. We all end up in suits.
8:27 am
I haven't seen M for a little less than seventeen minutes, as I rounded my last time entry down and this one up. Approaching me is a teenager. He has cutoff jeans and long, blonde hair. It's obvious that he surfs. I can tell he works here by the way he carries himself, but I don't know who he is. He's carrying one large mug with a spoon. Both he and I know that it is my order, but only I know that it's wrong. I still don't want to talk, so when he places a mug in front of me with a teabag hanging out, I simply stare at it. I stare at him like he's an idiot, but he's still too young to care what people like me are thinking. He walks away. I look back at the mug. I could pick it up and throw it at the wall. But I don't.
8:29 am
I'm still staring at the steaming mug of tea. Angry. Confused. Where's M? Why couldn't the drink in front of me have just been what I ordered. Or at least only a slight misunderstanding, having put all four shots in one cup? It was that hipster. He knew I was judging him. He sabotaged my order. He's probably sitting outside smoking a cigarette and laughing at me. From his point of view, I represent something beyond what I am. I'm the guy in the suit. I should grow a mustache. Like Don what's-his-name, from Miami Vice. Why do clothes smell better when they're sun-dried? I feel like drawing. I haven't drawn since I was a kid. I pick up a pencil and a napkin nearby...
8:51
I stare at my drawing. Then at the mug. I don't know what black doves represent. I leave the drawing under the mug as a statement. I hate tea. I will not be back.
8:52
I get up and leave the coffee shop. On my way out, Paul, the comedian, asks me something about what the toughest thing about something is. I shrug my shoulders and continue to walk. I remember that I forgot to order my almond croissant. Today is no longer precise. It is chaotic, like the world.
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Sketch by Wade Shields. Words by Steve Brian.
