He awakens to a pitched ceiling, a broken window, sundry grays, and a dream that his younger brother’s sleeping soundly in the bed next to his. It’s winter, its cold, and he’s alone. The bedroom’s musty and full of memories. It’s green at first glance, sylvan when the paisley pattern on the walls merge. The chill says it’s 4:45am. There’s a piece of corrugated cardboard duct taped to the broken windowpane, the one facing _________ Avenue. The boy raises his hand to about an inch away from the piece of cardboard. He feels the draft and, through the cloud of his own waking thinks, “This keeps the cold away. This is what separates me from my neighbor, from the trees, and the street.” (It’s in his nature to remark upon such things.) Marveling at the duct tape’s resilience, he touches the cardboard, the windowpane, then slowly gets out of bed.
It’s 5:30am and he’s ready for work. He snickers at the double cylinder deadbolt which is gold and scuffed, especially near the keyhole. He wonders, “What good’s a lock when the back door’s falling apart?” He inserts his key, turns it to the left and, hearing the bolt slide into place, turns it back to the right. He pulls the key out and remembers that he works 10–11-hour days as a junior graphic designer for $21,000 a year, no benefits. “It’s a start”, he rationalizes, “and it’s a well-known studio in New York City.” The boy scrutinizes the back door, then the weathered storm door that just slammed shut (he must remember to keep it unlocked from the inside because he can’t unlock it from the outside); he scans the vinyl siding (over which there was a big argument concerning payment) then the deck which is painted gray like a dull ache. “This is all that’s left,” he whispers.
By the time his key falls snugly into his front pocket, he’s past his neighbor’s wooden fence (they hate when he and his brother play catch near it) and past his basement windows (each fitted with padlock security grills to discourage imaginary brigands). He turns right at the foot of his driveway and sees the outline of buildings, rooftops, and trees coming into view. He shuts his eyes, breathes in the cold and instantly feels it in his temples. Clenching his fists to keep his fingertips warm (he wears fingerless gloves), he trots across _________ Avenue. It’s three blocks away from the bus that takes him to _______ Station. There’s no traffic at this hour and the only sound he hears is the one made by a light breeze wending its way through oak trees and lampposts.
A block away from the bus stop, he sees ____’_, the restaurant where he once worked as a part-time dishwasher, busboy, and bathroom cleaner. He remembers j, a bearded African American coworker who took out the rancid garbage and, with the same hands and arms, also plunged raw pork ribs into vats of homemade barbecue sauce. j had bad knees that made him wince. It was a chronic problem that, however inconvenient, enabled j to predict the weather (he marveled at that).
The money the boy earned working weekends at the restaurant was just enough to pay for art supplies and some good books for his last semester of college. v, his boss and the owner of ____’_, was a loathsome individual who, despite his shirt and tie, could scarcely hide his contempt for the boy (and he didn’t care that the boy was in college). Like v, the restaurant was stuffy, lacking visual appeal, and in constant need of a cleansing. But there were good moments and good people who kept him upbeat. He remembers the day one of the cooks, a short, exuberant Latin American, made him a plate of scrambled eggs. He was coring iceberg lettuce – a drum full of iceberg lettuce, to be precise – when a plate of eggs (and a fork) magically appeared. “Ees jes a lee loo snack,” said the cook with a smile. The cook also made himself a plate of scrambled eggs so they ate together. That was the last time he saw his friend, the kindly cook.
At the bus stop, he sees a yellow cab pass by, a bus traveling in the opposite direction, a few pedestrians, and a Crown Victoria turning left onto his street. He sees his bus in the distance – he can hear it rumbling, he can see its headlights. It’s accelerating; it’s rolling and pitching back into the right lane. It’s making its way towards him. The fluorescent lights inside are bright. He sees that the last person to step into the bus, an olive skinned man wearing a black fedora and a dark brown coat, is talking to the driver and trying hard to keep his balance. Both men are laughing and the other passengers are in on it too. He finds his bus pass. Then, something cold and melting settles on his cheek. He sees a faint swarm of white about the streetlight and then … more cold and more melting! It’s gently falling on his nose, forehead, and glasses now; it’s on his sleeves and on the tips of his shoes.
It’s snowing and, at that moment, he’s himself again.