Morning Ritual
I had hit the snooze button several times, and finally, hitting it one last time and turning the alarm off, sat up in bed, stretched my hands at the ceiling, and yawned loudly.
My brother's voice came toward me, seemingly from nowhere. This didn't strike me as odd. "Do you always wake up like this?" he asked.
"Like this how?" I responded. "After snoozing for an hour or so? Sure."
He continued to talk to me as I stood up out of bed, and I maintained a sleepy conversation. I walked along the wooden floor of the upstairs area of my apartment toward the closet. There was no railing on the side overlooking the lower level, and I noted that now that my bedside bookshelf had been moved elsewhere, the little walkway seemed very precarious, especially early in the morning.
"Do you ever worry about falling off that thing?" my brother asked, almost as if reading my thoughts.
"Yes, I do now anyway. I don't know why it didn't bother me before. I guess with the bookshelf there I felt like I had something I could hold onto in case I fell. Funny that it should make so much difference."
I retrieved some clothes and walked downstairs to the bathroom. A sleepy hot shower later, I was pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, rather than work clothes, and heading down the elevator to my car.
Not long after that, I found myself driving south down what appeared to be Main Street. The sky was still very dark, and I was practically the only driver on the street. I reached the block where I thought I needed to be, pulled into the left lane, checked for oncoming traffic, verified the green light, and made a U-turn onto the other side of the street. Halfway through doing so, I spotted a police car sitting in the parking lot next to a beige-painted cinderblock shop building. My heart leapt into my throat, and I was convinced the officer would come ticket me. A half a block later, there was still no sign of life from the patrol car, and I pulled into a parking lot.
I miscalculated, and my right front tire bumped over the low curb next to the driveway. I wondered if this would make a traffic stop even more likely. The police car still did not move.
"Good thing I needed to pull off the street anyway, just in case," I said to myself.
"Yeah, but just hope he doesn't think you're trying to hide from him," my brother answered, again seemingly as if from the air around me.
I rolled to a slow stop and looked around at the parking lot, a little perplexed. Instead of the gym I thought would be on the corner of the lot, there was a locksmith shop.
"This must be the wrong block," I said.
Then a crowd of people drew my attention. Probably 50 or 60 men, most of them wearing construction worker clothes, were gathered around the outside of a small café. The café was dark, but looked to be opening soon, judging by the occasional movements inside. A few of the workers were munching on donuts or sipping coffee. Others looked at me warily.
I turned my car around, drove out of the parking lot, and made my way down the street to the next block.
Morning Ritual
"Is this the one?" my brother asked.
"I think so," I said. "These blocks all look the same sometimes anyway."
I pulled into a second parking lot, but again the gym I was looking for was nowhere to be found.
"What are you looking for anyway?" my brother asked.
"The gym, where I go to take my morning shower," I answered.
"Why do you do that?" he asked.
"Because my apartment. . . . Because I. . . . Um, I already took my shower, didn't I?"
My brother's voice remained silent.
"I'm not even sure why I would have ever taken my shower somewhere else in the first place," I added, quite confused by this point. I could vividly remember going to the gym on a daily basis to shower before work, but I couldn't at all remember why. Concluding that it didn't really matter, I decided to return to my apartment and get dressed for work.
My car had now become a mountain bike, and I pedalled it up the sidewalk back toward my apartment. My feet worked hard against the pedals, and thinking that I was in the wrong gear, I tapped the shift lever with my right thumb. Now I pedalled easily, but was barely moving. I continued to shift back and forth, never finding a gear that seemed to work.
"This is the gear I like," I said aloud to my brother, lying in a poor attempt to cover up my ineptitude with the gear shift. As I said it I looked down and saw that the caster and small wheel bolted to my immobile front tire were misaligned, as on a shopping cart with a bad wheel. It then occurred to me that this was not the proper configuration for a bicycle wheel in the first place, and that it might explain the poor performance of the bicycle.
"Why. . . ." I started. "Did you do this?"
"The wheel stuck," my brother said. "But this seemed to work okay."
I sighed with exasperation, stepped off the bicycle, and walked it up the street.
— 2005-12-12
My brother's voice came toward me, seemingly from nowhere. This didn't strike me as odd. "Do you always wake up like this?" he asked.
"Like this how?" I responded. "After snoozing for an hour or so? Sure."
He continued to talk to me as I stood up out of bed, and I maintained a sleepy conversation. I walked along the wooden floor of the upstairs area of my apartment toward the closet. There was no railing on the side overlooking the lower level, and I noted that now that my bedside bookshelf had been moved elsewhere, the little walkway seemed very precarious, especially early in the morning.
"Do you ever worry about falling off that thing?" my brother asked, almost as if reading my thoughts.
"Yes, I do now anyway. I don't know why it didn't bother me before. I guess with the bookshelf there I felt like I had something I could hold onto in case I fell. Funny that it should make so much difference."
I retrieved some clothes and walked downstairs to the bathroom. A sleepy hot shower later, I was pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, rather than work clothes, and heading down the elevator to my car.
Not long after that, I found myself driving south down what appeared to be Main Street. The sky was still very dark, and I was practically the only driver on the street. I reached the block where I thought I needed to be, pulled into the left lane, checked for oncoming traffic, verified the green light, and made a U-turn onto the other side of the street. Halfway through doing so, I spotted a police car sitting in the parking lot next to a beige-painted cinderblock shop building. My heart leapt into my throat, and I was convinced the officer would come ticket me. A half a block later, there was still no sign of life from the patrol car, and I pulled into a parking lot.
I miscalculated, and my right front tire bumped over the low curb next to the driveway. I wondered if this would make a traffic stop even more likely. The police car still did not move.
"Good thing I needed to pull off the street anyway, just in case," I said to myself.
"Yeah, but just hope he doesn't think you're trying to hide from him," my brother answered, again seemingly as if from the air around me.
I rolled to a slow stop and looked around at the parking lot, a little perplexed. Instead of the gym I thought would be on the corner of the lot, there was a locksmith shop.
"This must be the wrong block," I said.
Then a crowd of people drew my attention. Probably 50 or 60 men, most of them wearing construction worker clothes, were gathered around the outside of a small café. The café was dark, but looked to be opening soon, judging by the occasional movements inside. A few of the workers were munching on donuts or sipping coffee. Others looked at me warily.
I turned my car around, drove out of the parking lot, and made my way down the street to the next block.
Morning Ritual
"Is this the one?" my brother asked.
"I think so," I said. "These blocks all look the same sometimes anyway."
I pulled into a second parking lot, but again the gym I was looking for was nowhere to be found.
"What are you looking for anyway?" my brother asked.
"The gym, where I go to take my morning shower," I answered.
"Why do you do that?" he asked.
"Because my apartment. . . . Because I. . . . Um, I already took my shower, didn't I?"
My brother's voice remained silent.
"I'm not even sure why I would have ever taken my shower somewhere else in the first place," I added, quite confused by this point. I could vividly remember going to the gym on a daily basis to shower before work, but I couldn't at all remember why. Concluding that it didn't really matter, I decided to return to my apartment and get dressed for work.
My car had now become a mountain bike, and I pedalled it up the sidewalk back toward my apartment. My feet worked hard against the pedals, and thinking that I was in the wrong gear, I tapped the shift lever with my right thumb. Now I pedalled easily, but was barely moving. I continued to shift back and forth, never finding a gear that seemed to work.
"This is the gear I like," I said aloud to my brother, lying in a poor attempt to cover up my ineptitude with the gear shift. As I said it I looked down and saw that the caster and small wheel bolted to my immobile front tire were misaligned, as on a shopping cart with a bad wheel. It then occurred to me that this was not the proper configuration for a bicycle wheel in the first place, and that it might explain the poor performance of the bicycle.
"Why. . . ." I started. "Did you do this?"
"The wheel stuck," my brother said. "But this seemed to work okay."
I sighed with exasperation, stepped off the bicycle, and walked it up the street.
— 2005-12-12