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I am walking down the sidewalk of the street that I live on. I am outside on a day that isn’t sure where it’s going. My skin chills appropriately; this air here is dry and bitter, but lacks the bite needed to justify a coat, and I am walking on impulse.
Birds flutter at the outbreak of some abrasive chatter reverberating from the elementary school near and it strikes me that I do not know what time of day it is. I wonder briefly if the children are playing or organizing for the buses. I am already moving towards the direction of the school, passing a neat row of houses on either side. These homes are modest but they have a redeeming value in their upkeep. The houses are interesting enough to merit the description “quaint” rather than “small” and the lawns are neat enough to distract from the overwhelming feeling that they essentially serve no purpose, not even aesthetically. “We want you to know that we may not be a sub-division but we’re not any less of a people for it.” That’s dramatic, but it’s what this neighborhood is saying.
I’m close enough now I can tell that kids are at recess. A class is grouped upon the front lawn receiving constructive criticism from their teacher on some game they have been playing (prior to my sudden decision to take a walk.) Surely, the man is preparing them for some future complex social obstacle they are going to encounter, and this group activity they’re participating in is a clever metaphor. That’s a weird thing to think.
Turning away from the schoolhouse with an awkwardness I can’t describe the cause of, I make my way around the public park across the street, where I am the only inhabitant. I can’t decide if it’s earlier or later than I imagined.
He woke up. Taking a deep breath, he stretched out his extremities, flushing the sleep out of his system. The clock projected the time upon the bare wall in a weak blue that only just cut through the dawn. 6:37 A.M He had eight minutes. Sparing one last moment to grieve for his loss of sleep, he began his morning sequence: it began in the feet, lazily crawling over each other as his surroundings begin to grow familiar once again. A circadian rhythm now hums into him a shaky consciousness, heart thumping obediently in his chest as his feet kick and his fingers twitch and his brow wiggles in a uniform pattern so perfect that they seem to vindicate the emerging hairs between them. After a few moments of quiet shuddering awake, feet eventually find floor and he dresses himself, loosely reciting the day’s agenda within his mind. This is how he wakes up.
As he made his way down the steps, remnants of his mind’s nighttime wanderings loiter dawdled around his skull; he had been in a park, alone. No - there had been someone standing behind him. Unconvinced of his weary recollection, he made his way into the kitchen and filled a small glass with water from the pitcher. No, He thought, He hadn’t been alone.
.
.
>>
The morning commute was typically mild; the drive wasn’t far, but what really made this routine path the premium choice for a morning drive was its efficiency. Lengthy stretches of boring, undeviating simplicity with an appropriate amount of red lights and a minimal amount of stop signs. Getting there should be no worse than being there.
Daylight crept in at a leisurely place that morning as the overly sensitive, overly automatic headlights on his automobile died only just as the beast swung a right into the McDonald’s parking lot. Exiting the car, he fumbled for the key fob and, locking it twice, proceeded across the street. He caught an eye from a passing driver. Reaching the door of the building, he withdrew a hand from his jean pocket raising chapped fingers to press against the cold medal keys in quick succession, unlocking the door to slip inside the modest little gray building planted unassumingly adjacent to the only McDonald’s in the area that consistently offered a functioning ice cream machine.
“This is my place of business man, this can not happen here!” Phil pleaded. His heart sunk as he saw that the day was already out of control. This was both unordinary in how early it was for a fight to have broken out in the lobby and typical in it’s prompting of the realization he had made at some point in the past six months; upon entering that door of the nondescript structure sitting quietly next to the good McDonald’s on Eldridge, you were leaving the previous existence and cleansing yourself of any prior rank of class system or cultural hierarchy, and that you were going to see some wild shit at some point, and that you were going to have to clean it up.
>>
Records rattled violently within their cases, threatening to fly from their appointed position upon the hallways of PowerHouse Recording Studios, due this morning not only to the familiar throbs of bass escaping through the walls and the occasional opening door, but also the flailing bodies of a fistfight that had all the tells of escalation showing. Phil, the chief engineer, was doing his best attempt, poor as it was, to assuage the situation.
Avoiding the morning’s excitement altogether, our protagonist made his way to the door across the lobby and, entering a second password into this door’s key-lock, swept into the main hallway and down past an assortment of rappers and singers, gloating down to him from their mounted plaques, boasting to him of their successes and riches. I hear you, friends.
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