This appears in a pre-2010 issue of Down in the Dirt magazine.
|
|
|
|
| ||
A Day in the Life
Bill DeArmond
Long before he opened his eyes he was conscious. He knew the clock beside him said 4:50. It was set for 5 a.m. but it never went off in the morning. George’s internal clock always stirred him, even on weekends when he would acknowledge the time, mentally check the date, and roll back over.
George was fascinated by his own preoccupation with time. He had frequent dreams about time. He would envision the clock, briefly bring himself to awareness, turn over and the clock face would be within 15 minutes of the image in his mind.
Mostly, he willed himself to push the alarm button before the buzzing woke up his wife. She slept so fitfully now, always tired during the day, especially now with her malaise.
He lay there, warm in the covers and the heat from her back. He let the day’s schedule run through his mind. Every day was nearly identical, but it helped him to focus and allowed him to savor those first few moments of his morning.
George Bennett slid silently out from under the sheets, careful not to disturb her. Gently, he pulled the comforter back across her shoulders. His hand rested there for a while.
He slipped on his house shoes waiting like sentinels at the foot of the bed. He took his ratty but substantial robe from the end post and shivered as he felt its accumulated cold. Keeping the thermostat turned off at night was the only way to stay within their utility budget.
He made his way quietly down the stairs. At over 200 pounds, he still moved as stealthily as a ninja. Ironically, his wife, who was half his size, thundered about the house like a baby elephant. But this was the time George cherished most, when all things were possible, before promise became disappointment, when chores had a purpose—making the coffee and toast, taking out the trash, emptying and replenishing the dishwasher.
He filled his cup halfway and ran a little water into it. The first sip of the day can’t be too hot or overpowering. He set it on a coaster (always on a coaster) by his recliner in the living room and turned on his 40 watt reading lamp. He took a drink and sat perfectly still, the cup bringing his arthritic hands to life. He listened to the house coming to life. Yes, this was a moment to treasure.
He refilled his mug and was ready to face the morning’s headlines. Quietly, he opened the front door, turning on the porch light just long enough to spot where the delivery boy might have hidden the paper. His neighbors burned their lights all night—artificially convinced it provided protection from dark intruders. But George couldn’t afford either the constant bulb replacement or the electricity. Besides, he knew where the shadows dwelled.
There was a brisk chill in the air that stung his lungs, but not unpleasantly. The lawn was covered by a heavy frost—the promise of fall grudgingly giving way to winter. This fuzzy white domain waited patiently for the rising sun to spirit it away. His shoes got progressively wetter as he searched the porch and the driveway for the paper, finally spotting its blue plastic cover near the rear tire—the one with the slow leak he had to keep filled every morning.
He closed the door but heard the floor above creak, as if his wife had stirred into the spot he had vacated. When she was diagnosed seven months ago, he promised her he would be more attentive, more responsive to her needs. So a good day was followed by two bad ones, then a brief respite, and the cycle would begin again. The good days seemed fewer now.
George Bennett had a specific paper-reading ritual. He first discarded all the ad inserts, the Business and Home sections. He would look only at the back of the Local piece to see what the weather foretold for that day. He liked only “partly cloudy and mild.” Next, he would give a cursory run through the Entertainment part, although nothing much excited him anymore. They hadn’t gone out to a movie in over a year. Sports was his favorite and he would devour every story, except soccer and hockey which he didn’t understand and thought boring. The Front section was always last—something he had to work up to. There was never any good news and the letters only solidified his belief that ninety percent of the public were morons.
He never spent more than ten minutes in the bathroom before leaving for work. A fast shave with a three-week-old blade and a minimum of cream. Patiently rolling the tube down to the dollop of toothpaste. And out the door, easing it closed behind him.
