Something

Today is like every other day. The radio turns itself on when I told it to last night, quiet and scratchy and just barely discernable by the rhythm and tone of the muted voices as NPR. It’s not actually the radio station that awakens me. It’s the minute click that happens a quarter second before NPR begins muttering me towards lucidity, the clock radio clearing its throat before beginning its daily monologue, that flicks the consciousness switch in my head into the on position. It’s too early, but I came long ago to the realization that I am only capable of getting up either too early or too late. There is no just right. But if I could stay in this warm bed with too many pillows for the rest of my life, I would.

I turn off the clock radio and turn on the stereo radio using the remote, tuned to the same station. It is clearer and cleaner and not the clock radio, which is the best thing about it. The clock radio, gentle though it is, wakes me up. The stereo radio never does. I wake it up, and that makes it my friend instead of a casually despised necessity. NPR tells me that something happened in Iraq yesterday, or in Afghanistan last night, or in Jamaica Plain early this morning. It tells me that politicians are jockeying for position over this issue, or that issue. It tells me that some group is outraged about the behavior of some other group.

I can hear my roommates rustling around, and wait until the rustling tells me that the bathroom is free before climbing out of bed and climbing into my thick, too-big robe and shoving my feet into my slippers. If I could wear this robe with a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, some wool socks and the slippers for the rest of my life I would. I drop a quick couple of Excedrin to stave off the headache that is always just an unguarded thirty minutes away, cough a not-really-necessary morning cough, and blow my nose before leaving the safety of the bedroom.

I head for the bathroom, passing my roommate fumbling away at the coffee machine on the way. We all understand that acknowledging one another before we are fully clothed and caffeinated is the opposite of polite, and could in fact be mildly dangerous, so no feelings are hurt by pretending that the others don’t exist at this point in the morning.

I disrobe and climb into the already-warm shower, noticing that the bathroom needs to be cleaned but not really thinking about when I’ll take the time to do it. I am an observer now, not a planner, and certainly not a doer. I’m not even prepared to begin the scrubbing process yet, so I just let the water scrape away at my shoulders on its own for a couple of minutes. If I could stay here in the spray for the rest of my life I would. But the presence of others waiting for the shower, increasingly oppressive even though intangible, doesn’t permit this. I turn, duck my head, shampoo up, wash my face, scrub my body, and towel off. My towel is musty, and should have been washed or switched out with another a couple days ago. I will probably wait a couple more days before getting around to it. I look in the mirror, and remember that I shaved yesterday and can get away with skipping it today. I’ve established at work that I deliberately go for the artfully scruffy look, though it’s really not a style choice as much as an I-don’t-feel-like-shaving choice.

I head back to my bedroom, being careful to not initiate eye contact with anyone else yet. I’m not ready. It would be too much. Back in my little vacuole of safety, I don’t get dressed just yet. I sit down, start up my computer, and listen with a quarter of an ear to the radio while I search online to see if anyone has said anything of interest since last night. They haven’t, and they never have, but it’s necessary to check. I check the weather, and see that I may or may not need an umbrella today. I check my email accounts, and see that there is spam that needs to be deleted.

I have to get dressed. It’s time and past time. I need to do laundry, so I’m forced to wear the alright pants and the good enough shirt and the not-quite-so-comfy underwear. I’m forced to wear the socks that don’t stay up. I remember to take the essential items out of the pockets of the pants I wore yesterday and transfer them to the pockets of the pants I’m wearing today. Access card, T-pass, chapstik, gum, a lighter, quarters. Dimes, nickels and pennies go into the bowl on the dresser. I need to empty the bowl into something bigger. I’ll do it later. Cell phone, keys, cigarettes and wallet are already in the jacket.

Back to the smaller bathroom to brush my teeth and swish around a little Listerine. I should floss, but it seems like too much work today. Two steps is better than three. I dip out a little something pasty from a can in the cabinet, smear it around on my hands, and incorporate it into my hair. Artfully messy to go with the artful scruff. Back to the bedroom, put on the jacket (once black, now formerly black), blow my nose once more for the road, grab the mammoth novel I’m reading but am not really enjoying, and head out the door.

It’s a little rainy, a little windy, a little chilly. I start down the steps, stop and consider going back in for the umbrella I forgot, finish considering and head down the street without it. The walk to the T-station isn’t long, but it’s long enough that I get impatient without having something to do. I start to read the book, remember that I don’t really like it, close it and keep walking. It’s too early for casual phone calling. I put my hands in my pockets and walk a little faster toward the station.

I arrive, and there is a train waiting. I open the door of the little self-service newsstand/kiosk, take a copy of the free daily Metro, climb on the train, hike to the back, and take a seat. The paper tells me the things that NPR already let me in on. It also tells me about the Red Sox, the Patriots, the Revolution. It tells me that a band I’ve never heard of is making their triumphant return to The Paradise. It tells me that people didn’t like what it told them last week about a group of people. It tells me that the group of people was misrepresented, that their message was misunderstood, that there has been a significant miscommunication. It runs out of things to tell me, and I turn back to the book. I still don’t like the book. I look out the window, and have a lot of train ride left.

The train comes to the stop. The doors open, and today she gets on. She didn’t get on yesterday, or the day before that, but she did the day before that. She walks to the back and sits down across from me in her usual seat. She doesn’t read. She has an iPod, and this must be enough for her. I always forget to charge my iPod. I wonder what she listens to. I glance over at someone near her, then at her, then at someone on the other side of her, and then go back to my book. I don’t look at her again until a few stops later, when someone goes to stand near her. I glance at the new person, then at her. This time she glances back. We hold for a moment, a quick moment, and then we both look away. Neither of us looks back. I don’t look again. Not today. The book is interesting now.

The walls rise up to either side, and we’re underground. A few stops, and then hers. She gets off. I don’t look. The next stop is mine. If I could stay on the train and just keep riding I would. If I could go up the stairs, across the lobby, down the stairs on the other side, climb on a train going back the other way, go home and climb back into the shower, I would. If I could climb back into my robe, my flannel pajama bottoms, my wool socks and my slippers, I would. If I could climb back into bed, I would.

If I could talk to her, I would.