Saturday, December 07, 2002

I have no concept of time or space when I wake up. The red numbers on my clock told me it was 12:30 when I opened my eyes. Could mean anything. I stood up and things started to focus some. I was in my bedroom. I'm never quite sure where I'll wake up, the closet, the bathroom, couch, someone's car, so it takes me a few moments to remember where I am and how I got there. I stepped from there to the shower. I didn’t turn on the light. I miss my old apartment, I could have a blazing hot shower for an hour, and in this apartment I'm lucky if I get 20 minutes. I sit in the tub facing the shower, the water hitting me in the face. If I’d turned on the light I might have seen the room filling with steam, a simulacrum of some bathhouse somewhere. Not that I get any action like that. Close to one now, I crawl into bed. Some children are playing loudly outside; the wetbacks downstairs are blaring Tejano music. I close my eyes and see an assault rifle going off. A few moments of it’s report echo across the small field in front of my apartment, silencing the voices in my head. My alarm goes off at two. I get out of bed eight minutes later. I find some clothes, a sweater since I haven’t done laundry in two months. I hand washed some socks the night before. A friend IM’s me to make sure I’m still alive. He’s surprised to find I am not only alive but also likely to remain that way for at least a few more weeks. I turn my computer off for the first time in weeks and leave my apartment. Of course I remember to grab a copy of the Hunger for a coworker to attempt to convert it from Ogg Vorbis to MPEG-1 since I had no luck at it, but I forget a necklace that I wanted to wear. I light a clove, Djarum Special. I’ve been trying not to smoke until after work for the past few weeks, but today I don’t feel like dealing with it. I missed the 2:30 bus and had to wait for the 2:50 one. It got there at 2:54. There is a call center of some kind along the route; I think they sell timeshares or something. It attracts some lowlifes that seem on edge. They don’t work full time or even have a regular schedule. Working fast food would be a step up. Two women get on and start talking, loudly, about 12-step program meetings. We got to Pecos just in time for me to run down a block to buy some Sampoerna X-tras. Of course the Pecos bus was early so I had to run back. Sometimes our watches aren’t set the same or the driver just doesn’t feel like waiting around. I crossed Pecos at 2:41 by my watch; he leaves at 2:44. He waited for me. Onboard is a sad mélange of poor Hispanics, an older woman with a high, brittle voice that reminds me of Phyllis Diller. She is still blonde, but the gray shows through; it must be difficult to keep up blonde hair against the ravages of age. A blue kerchief tops the ensemble, a reminder of Rosie Riveter on her way to work. At 3:24, we stop across the street from work, in front of Tail Spin, a bar that my coworkers sometimes invade (usually on pay day) to ease away the tension and terror of the day. I light up another cigarette, this time a Sampoerna and walk, slowly, across the street.

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