The First Day of the Rest of My Life and I'm Drinking Bitter Coffee

The alarm sounded. I slothfully rolled over my wife and flopped a finger on the clock. The snooze button is fat. Statistics say I'll hit it.

I put my head on the pillow and closed my eyes. I'm not sure they were ever open.

The alarm again. 8 p.m. Is it that late? Heaving my sleep-heavy self across the bed, under a thick comforter, takes more effort. Flailing, my fingers smack the ridges on that oval button. Snoozing again.

When I finally went to the shower the clouds outside were already leaking. But I didn't know this. The shades, the kind that roll up and down, were blocking my view.

Coffee for breakfast. An apple in my pocket for later. Time for work. What a lousy Saturday.

During the 20-minute commute I pass the billboard for the adult superstore, the Intimate Treasures shop, the Naughty Girls night club and the car dealership with a bright yellow smart car. It's sad if I let myself think about it.

I covered a holiday parade. 'Twas the month before Christmas, and all through the town, the people were hustling, while rain, and not yet snow, fell down.

An hour and a half later, when Santa Claus had passed, heading southbound on Main Street, and the crowds dissipated leaving a spread of candy on the gutters, I strolled back to the office with damp feet and a soggy note pad.

But I left my key to the building at home. And my cell phone. Poop.

The distribution shed was open. Piles of newspaper. Dim lights. Puddles in the nearly vacant parking lot where my car sleeps with a leaf or two stuck in the windshield wipers.

Thankfully someone can let me into the Northwestern where I drink more coffee and upload a photo gallery to the Web with a Macintosh computer that runs a little too slow.

2:30 p.m. - I go home. The landlord is raking wet leaves in his front lawn. He wears a tight black hat folded above his ears and a black shirt so he resembles a bank robber. I hesitate on the doorstep to wave should he turns toward me. But he doesn't, so I go inside and take my soaked shoes off next to the couch.

Now I'm back at the office five hours later listening to chatter over the police scanner about an unconscious person at the bar, his head on the counter, and another officer pursuing a welfare check on a possible drunk man sauntering in the 600 block of West Fourth Street.

And I am drinking bitter coffee thinned with non-dairy creamer.