He reached for the snooze button. He knew it was there. Somewhere. And it wasn’t like it was a different alarm clock… or that he was unfamiliar with its location on the night stand, or its shape, or its button configuration. But this scene would be repeated every morning he went to work… maybe every morning for the rest of his life.
The alarm would go off. “Clarion’s call”, he would say… or he would say that the sound reminded him of artillery shells whizzing over the trenchworks outside of Verdun (not that he ever heard that… but he would never let that bother him when describing something).
His instinct was to immediately silence the disruption to his meager sleep. In haste to hit the snnoze button he would knock over, in the following order… his glasses, his cell phone, a back issue of the Rolling Stone and a fist full of tangerine peel…
You could count on this every time. But sometimes a banana peel and not a tangerine peel.
If he located the snooze button in somewhat of a timely way, he would actually collapse back to sleep, or try to anyway. He told me that one time he was able to accurately hit the snooze button five times… logging an extra 25 winks. But, as it concerned the snooze button, he always placed the “over and under” at one.
Confronted with the unhappy conclusion that he would have to get out of bed he would either pick up his glasses, cell, magazine & peel off the floor… or proceed straight to the shower.
On this morning it was the shower.
The shower was his sanctuary, his sanctum sanctorum. At various times he had lived in places that had showers where the water came out with the force of a watering can. He would tell me, “I am convinced that low water pressure is responsible for 75% of the bad attitude on planet Earth.”
Before moving to a new nest he would go straight to the bathroom and inspect the shower. A weak shower would be a “deal killer.”
And he needs hot water… plenty of hot water. As he would say, “hot enough to turn my skin tomato red and plenty of steam to make it easier to shave.”
We got to talking about this one day, “I guess it happened after the divorce. I prefer not to look at myself in the mirror for longer than 10 seconds. 10 seconds is what I reckon it takes me to brush my hair. Shaving takes too long. I prefer to take my time… savouring the heat, the steam, the steady pulse of water… then feeling my way thru the shave… finding the rough spots and attending to them.”
“Sure,” I say, “I’ve seen you in the morning and sometimes it looks like Sweeney Todd had a go at your face.”
But more than once he would tell me, the blood not withstanding, that shaving in the shower was a religious experience.
And on this morning he remained in the shower 15 minutes… letting the steaming “rain” beat on his back for three or four minutes, then he would slowly turn into face the water… eyes closed, head lowered… then turn to his back again before reaching for his razor.
After the shower, next on the agenda was his fluffy towel. He would wrap himself up in his towel as if wearing a cape and remain motionless… he told me he preferred to let the cotton fibers do the work of drying without further encouragement.
One time we caught a day game at Yankee Stadium. And in between innings he said to me, “a bath towel has to be big, real BIG… and fluffy, or what’s the point!” I looked at the scoreboard to see if there was anything telling that would have been the inspiration for this revelation. No. But that’s the way he was. He probably thought about that damned towel all day.
His shower, now history, his fluffy towel hung up to dry, he would step purposefully to the armoire to select an appropriate shirt for the day. He no longer bothered with the fine points of attire as he once did. At one time he would have had joy in selecting a glen plaid suit, a contrast collar and cuff shirt, a regimental striped tie and silk foulard pocket square. But now he focused the same interest and care in choosing a T-shirt.
Today he put on his favorite… his “Grumpy” shirt. He purchased it on his last visit to Disneyland. The Dude with the mood… short fused since 1937. Every time he put on that shirt it would make him smile… he would repeat the shirt’s slogan, “Dude with the mood…” and then he would punctuate the thought with a chuckle.
On work days, the next step was a predictable as the sunrise. He would stop in at the Italian Corner Deli for his usual: a sesame bagel, cream cheese & a slice of tomato and a medium dark roast — black. Sometimes he would vary it… a bacon, egg & cheese on a toasted sesame. Pepper jack cheese. He would share a few good words with Scotty and Tom… and then it would be time to put his “game face on.”
He steps outside, and without fail glances at the sky. Today it’s blue and he smiles… his smile is both inward and outward.
Within minutes he is at his desk… the sun now streaming thru his window. He smiles one more time. He cranks up his PC, puts on his music, checks his emails and then sends me a brief note, “It’s a handsome day today…”