the-hold.com
rohe
After 10 years or so of night shift, and all the blessed midnight silence, booze, partying till dawn that came with it, rohe suddenly finds himself doing ten hour days starting when he used fall down…
MORNINGS: 1st SHIFT: WITH COFFEE
Five VREEP-VREEP a.m. isn't an hour I'd thought I'd be seeing again on the upside. Five is an hour reserved for personal psychosis, falling down, and waiting out that last insidious half-hour till beer is available. Instead of these sterling fine things I find myself rolling up off the floor like any other joe named Joe, taking ill-placed stabs at the alarm clock, the days doings already mapped, categorized, and filed for future reference should anyone in the dim faraway land of America 3002, by any mischance, lose the definition of 'boredom' from their lives and dictionaries.
It's 5am and some seconds now; I've imagined my entire work day and it's time to go home. Put in some overtime too. Then I open my eyes and the clock glares 5:00 in return. Muttering any of the common profanities I prepare for existence May 17, 1999.
The preparation doesn't take long, and in fact, in some parts of the world the preparation is almost more important than the event itself. For instance: Iraq. For weeks American flags are woven, urine saved, gasoline distilled, and inflammatory rhetoric written and stored in small earthen jars in the hot sun. Everyone has a swell time weaving and all: "That's a fine flag, Bob. Ya plannin' a pissin' or a burnin' with that beauty?" "Yup, she's a beaut, Stan. I'm thinkin a pissin in the mornin and a burnin in the afternoon would really show them feelthy Americans." Allah's will be done, Bob." "Allah's will be done, Stan. Gonna be on CNN too I hear."
And so I slump off to the kitchen, torn bathrobe, yesterdays filthy jeans, making coffee so strong the grounds float over the filter, and when they're in the cup contrasted against the creamer, I see little difference between french roast and potting soil, except if a body ate potting soil they possibly wouldn't require 6 Rolaids, nor tell their life story to a 4 foot tall Mexican they work with in 45 minutes flat who has a handy way of saying, "Si senor" at just the right times.
So there I am in a dark kitchen at 5:25am, manning the coffee maker with a funnel in one hand and a 5lb. bag of sugar in the other trying to think happy thoughts, trying not to think about anything, just trying, for the love of God, to block the glare coming from the neighbors carport. I hold my hand in front of my eyes and either I'm dreaming or I really did just count the metacarpals in my hand.
There's a kinda funny story associated with the neighbors, the guy's blind see, and see, he's always got his lights on see; lights inside, lights outside; track lighting up his fuckin chimney for all I know; the entire visible spectrum radiating out in all the glory the Westing- house Co. envisioned twenty nine 100 watt bulbs could provide. Personally, I don't think the guy's blind at all. My theory is some advanced form of photosynthesis requiring both Cool White, Soft White, and the newer halogen models.
By now it's 5:30 and it's time to give the ol' Ford van the equivalent of automotive Viagra-a good warmin up. Yes, sad, but true, but before puttin' 'er in the wind I must engage in a combustive foreplay designed to both relieve my tensions and erect her gauges. I keep telling her invasive surgeries won't be necessary, and she believes me, happily leaving wet spots wherever we go.
Chain smoking now, exhaling into a hot cup of coffee, the smoke pluming up, Marlboro dragon tails whipping under my glasses, into my eyes; I squint through till 5:40, pull on my boots, quietly close the front door, my nights have become days, and to the right of me the sun is pink and new and doesn't give a fuck about anybody.
rohe