Beep. Beep. Beep.
The jackhammer tones of Brad’s alarm clock jabbed into his dream, manifesting as an error message on his computer screen that for some reason had little multicolored dots running all over it. He was trying to sweep the dots off to the left with a window, so that he could see but they kept creeping back around the edges. And now error dialogs would pop up, beep beep beep and he’d click them. He finally realized that he was not a government spy trying to hack into the enemy mainframe. He was just Brad Gong.
Brad stretched over and hit the large lozenge button at the top of his clock that would grant him nine more precious minutes of sleep. Not ten (why was it always nine?) he though as usual, but tried not to get too worked up about it as he dove back into his pillow.
This time Brad was in orchestra rehearsal. He was trying to keep up with the conductor but every time he raised his head to look at the baton, his fingers would stop moving. He was getting into a rhythm of look at the finger, look at the baton, barely keeping up with his stand partner when the frickin French horn section started playing beep beep beep.
Stretch, hit. Nine more minutes, really this time.
And now he was on the road, driving away from a malevolent force following closely behind (perhaps it’s the alarm clock, Brad). He turned down the alley that was behind the coffeeshop next to school, the alleyway he knew from a thousand afternoons waiting for Louie to finish just one more cigarette. He’d pop out on Wells (it’s one way) and be home free. But as he made his left, the force was there, throbbing and dark, evil and definitely not in the mood to follow a pansy street sign arrow. And as the car slid towards it, he looked over to the passenger seat at someone he had just grown pretty fond of and said, “That’s coming awfully fast,” in a perfectly conversational tone.
Beep beep beep.
Brad gladly rolled out of bed this time. The successive snooze cycles had etched deep furrows into his morning as usual. But usually the dreams got nicer as he approached 8:15, not worse. Brad took his forest green towel off the chair, pausing to look at the map on his desk. He padded down the hall to the bathroom, the towel over his shoulder, thinking, “I should’ve gotten a part time job this summer.”
Shower. Brad found himself drifting away again as he washed his face for the third time. “I’ve done this before.” He gave himself until the count of 30 to get out. Then he found himself counting the teens multiple times. With a great sigh, he turned off the water and finished the morning rituals. Contacts. Hair. Teeth. All the lollygagging out of his system, he prepared for the morning discussion.
Breakfast was waiting for him downstairs. Today it was two fried eggs with orange juice and toast. “Morning, Mom,” he called to the utility room.
“Morning, dear.”
Brad ate with one hand and turned the newspaper with the other. He was just killing time until his mother came back. She walked in with a flowering pot.
“Mom, I was wondering if you’d thought more about my road trip with Louie idea.”
“We’ll see what your father says. I just don’t think you’re old enough to make such a long trip without adults around. Do these lilies look better on this table? Or the counter?”
“I’m 18, Mom. Louie drove to Tennessee right after he got his license,” he tried not to sound too whiny.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Ask Mrs. Stern, I’m serious!”
“Well, anyway, what the Sterns do is their business. Eat up. You’ll be late for work.”
Brad finished eating and put his dishes in the sink. He grabbed his bag and headed for the door but didn’t make it out without a kiss.