Usually, the alarm wakes me up. Occasionally my body’s internal processes manage to rouse me on their own accord, but all too often the little digital monster beats them to the punch. The radio kicks on, merrily blasting some overplayed pop song or another or inane disc jockey chatter, rudely forcing me from my state of blissful unconsciousness. I lie instead in a form of confused half-wakefulness characteristic of those few moments after being unwillingly awoken. The world is poorly defined at this point; the remnants of last night’s dreams still linger on the fringes of my consciousness. My hand rises almost reflexively to grope in the direction of the clock radio, attempting to locate the button that will shut off the offending noise. Inevitably, it finds its target, and the small world of my apartment room is silent once more.
Before my brain has a chance to fully rouse itself and offer an objection, I have rolled out of my soft, cozy pallet and stand groggily in the center of the floor. My head clears from the jolt of warm blankets to chilly room temperature, and I am able to perceive the world around me in its completeness for the first time. The bright, energetic light of the infant sun pours through the venetian blinds, squeezing between the narrow cracks and forming a hatched pattern of alternating light and shadow across the floor and computer desk beyond. These light streams illuminate flecks of dust that twirl lazily in their slow, indifferent descent to the ground. The only sound is the soft yet persistent whir of the fans of my dual computers. The rest of the apartment, being uninterested in rousing itself at such an early hour, still sleeps.
The next step in the morning ritual involves the shower. And so I slip out of my nightclothes and into a robe and step across the empty hallway into the bathroom. Flipping two adjacent switches brings the overhead light and fan to life, and my surroundings begin to look more active. Leaving the robe on a towel rack, I reach into the shower and pull the knob towards me. Water spurts from the showerhead hesitantly, then works up its nerve and jets outward, forming a shallow arc that glitters in the artificial light. After fiddling with the dial for a few moments to find the right temperature, I step inside.
Hot showers in winter are one of the great blessings of modern life. The steaming waters, mixed with a little well-lathered soap, slide sensuously across the flesh, cleansing it of any impurities it may have gathered the previous day. And in the process the mind is purified as well; the shower water carries the remnants of last night’s dream world away into the drain along with the dirt and sweat and grime. Fully refreshed, my brain begins to contemplate the day that lies before us.
A quick shove of the shower knob and a slight drip replaces the former waterfall. The spigot belches water and then silences itself, done for the day, as far as I’m concerned. The familiar chill of cool air whispering past wet skin urges me insistently to towel myself dry.
I throw the robe back on and retreat to my room, past the closed doors of my still-slumbering roommates. There I change into my daily attire, grabbing shirt, socks, jeans, and underwear at random from the plastic drawers. Although no physical aspect of the room has changed, it seems somehow livelier to me now. The computer fans hum more energetically; the dust flakes dance with greater zeal.
Fully cleaned, clothed and awake, I march off to the kitchen to fulfill a time-honored tradition. The coffeemaker has been idle for nearly twenty-four hours, but it’s time again to give the old boy a job to do. I slide the filter into place, then grab the tin can that holds the precious grains and pop the lid. Heavenly aromas waft their way up towards my nostrils. I inhale deeply, pausing for a brief moment to savor this olfactory delight. Then four carefully counted, heaping spoonfuls of the only drug worth ingesting are tossed into the maw of the waiting filter, and four precisely measured cups of tap water poured into the brewer. You have to be careful with the amount. Too much and the coffee will be strong and overly bitter; too little and it will taste weak and watered-down. And bad coffee starts the day off on the completely wrong foot.
I switch on the brewer and leave it to its task; I have a couple of chores of my own to accomplish while it works. Time rudely begins to impose itself on me, so I can no longer afford to be leisurely. I stride back to the bathroom and pick up my electric razor. It trembles as I turn it on, buzzing angrily like some mechanized species of insect. I proceed with the shaving, the little bug gnawing away the sprouts of facial hair that my skin labored all night to produce. Then I silence the shaver with a flick of its switch and replace it with the toothbrush. Still scrubbing the fibers vigorously against my teeth, I wander back into the kitchen to check on the status of my all-important coffee.
The brewer has performed admirably; the pot rests on the hot plate half full of dark, steaming liquid. I briefly return to the bathroom for a final rinse and spit, then it’s back to the kitchen for a hurried breakfast. My choice of food varies from day to day, ranging from cereal to a toasted bagel with cream cheese to nothing. Today’s catch is an English muffin, which I unceremoniously toss into the toaster. In an ideal world I could leave it there, secure in the knowledge that it would pop back out again when it was done. But our toaster is a greedy arsonist that would sooner burn my breakfast to a crisp than toast it properly and return it, so I must stay vigilant. While I wait, I pull a mug out of the cupboard, into which I add the proper amount of half-and-half and fill the rest with coffee, allowing the two liquids to mix as I pour. Cold, white cream swirls into hot, black coffee like a fluid yin-yang; the unity of opposites playing out in this small universe bound in ceramic. I raise the cup to my lips, taking the first sip of the day, and savor the bitter flavor as smooth liquid fire slides down my throat, bringing welcome warmth to the center of my corporeal form.
My nostrils pick up the scent of burning bread and I catch the toaster in the act. My muffin has been slightly seared already, but a generous layer of butter and grape jelly effectively remedies the problem. As I consume this modest breakfast, Father Time makes his unwelcome presence known once more, forcing me to gulp down the last of my coffee and hurry back to my room to gather together my daily necessities. With a jacket and backpack hastily thrown over my shoulders, I stride out the front door and into the world at last.
The morning is a cold one, chilly enough to transform a breath into the familiar ephemeral cloud of mist. Yet I am largely untouched thanks to my jacket and the lingering warmth of the coffee. The sun sits low on the horizon, casting long shadows on the pavement and dazzling eyes that glance eastward. Mountains rise in the distance, their tree-covered slopes cloaked in a gray mist. I stride through the quiet world, the dew from the grass clinging to my shoes as I traverse the short distance between the bus stop and my apartment.
The bus arrives right on schedule. I hop aboard and take the most convenient seat. Another day is born.