The alarm was blaring in his ear from the bedside table in apartment 212 of Cheshire St. breet, breet, Breet, BReet, BREet, BREEt, BREET BREET BREET BREET BREET! With a loud and decisive strike did his fist silence the alarm via its conveniently located snooze button. Ten minutes of quiet, serene, alarm-free bliss were enjoyed before his sleep was again disturbed by his alarm. breet, breet, Breet, Bree-.
He sat up in bed muttering to the alarm, “I’m up, I’m up… shut up… Mugnnhh,” before finally reaching over to the table and sliding the switch on his Saiko mini-clock to ‘off’ and then back to ‘on’ so it would not be forgotten in the event of a hectic night. With a small yawn, the final attempt his body played to get him back to sleep, he tossed his sheets over to the side and stepped out from his bed to begin his morning.
The routine was fairly standard by now: dodge the small mounds of mislabeled and misplaced things laying about the floor on the way to the bathroom, turn on the shower so that it could begin its stubborn process of producing hot water, repeat his miniature tango through the bedroom and into the kitchen, do as many dishes as he could in the three minutes it took the shower to warm, and then finish his morning rumba right out of his underwear and into the refreshingly warm water. From there, things were less routine and more spontaneous. What he ate, what he drank, what he watched on the television… all of these things were decided on the spot in a failed effort to be more intriguing and random. As it stood, today was ham and eggs with a cold Bud Light to take the edge off his hangover and no television. Little did he realize that this was exactly what he did the previous day, as it was the day before as well.
Filled with protein and fat (and beer) he changed into the last set of clean clothes he had with a subtle grumble that sounded like “need to do the laundry… quarters…” but could have easily just been the grunting language of your typical bachelor speaking of things better left unknown to the civilized world. With a look of contemplation, he surveyed his own personal disaster zone for a brief moment before closing the door with a “ka-thak” of finality. The day had officially begun.
* * *
It was with a frustrated “ka-chick” that the door to apartment 212 opened only minutes later. Had this been a usual triumphant return home keys would have played a minor percussion symphony as they skittered across the faux marble countertop that doubled as a kitchen shelf; however, this was not a triumphant return. This was the result of way too much fun last night… last Friday night. He looked at the only piece of art he had in the apartment, an original oil on canvas of New Year’s Eve in Times Square but hung crooked, and he smiled. With a simple glance at his reminder that all things change in their own course the day was suddenly flipped from a bad start to just another series of events.
Remembering the laundry that needed to be done, he rummaged about the living room’s piles before finding a basket large enough to handle his used clothing and went to work collecting his garments for what he dubbed “reprocessing.” Reprocessing sounded so much more fun that “doing the laundry,” and was another attempt that he made to keep his life mysterious and intriguing.
Again did he quickly survey his kingdom before shutting the door behind him with a calm “ka-thak,” clothing in hand for reprocessing. Unbeknownst to him, when he returned to his miniature landfill later in the day, his eyes would not be the first to verify that all was right in the land of Apartment 212.
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