What God Eats for Breakfast

Careful not to wake him, I slip out of bed. The air in the bedroom is crisp for an autumn morning. I should really look into getting a nice rug so I’d have no more of this cold, hardwood floor business. Hardwood floors weren’t my choice; he wanted them. But I can certainly afford to splurge on a rug purchase next weekend. I change into my standard suit and tie after a good shower and shave. Before I leave, I lean over the bed, over Ben. He has the face of an angel, though aren’t all men most precious when asleep? So handsome and peaceful. I rub my cheek against his, my aftershave against his morning stubble. I keep meaning to grow mine out for a goatee or a moustache at least. He says it would give me a ‘look of mature sophistication’. I reply that the last thing I want to do is look as old as he makes me feel. This is usually followed by some ‘boyish wrestling’ which ends in kisses and a promise that I’ll properly consider the suggestion. But somehow I can’t seem to change my morning routine. There’s something oddly comforting about starting every day the same way.

I hesitate to kiss him, else he may stir and wake before his alarm, in which case he would be somewhat less peaceful and precious. Ben got in late last night, smelling like smoke and wet dog; I didn’t need to ask. I re-bandaged his arm and rubbed his muscles loose, listening to the stories of the evening at the station from a burnt pasta dinner to a burnt second-story house. He has another three hours to sleep, and I want to be sure he gets it. On the other hand, if the results went the wrong way tonight, he might not be in the mood to kiss me for a long time. With a deep breath, I settle for giving a soft kiss on his forehead, though his lips look so lush and lonely.

I lace up my shiny black shoes, grab my overcoat and suitcase, and tip-toe out. Out of the apartment, out of the hallway, out of the stairwell, out of the building. Into the streets of downtown, the air much colder than my impression of it earlier in the bedroom. Regardless, I briskly begin my walk.

I’ve always thought life would be much more interesting if we each had theme music. Think about it. Besides making even the most simple walk to work rhythmic and pulsating with exciting musical accompaniment, it would provide some key insight into your mood and the moods of those around you. If you’re standing in line at the ATM and dark, ominous music approaches you from behind wearing a trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat over his face, you’d know to simply duck out of line and find another ATM. Or if you’re meeting a friend for lunch and the music hits strong chords, you could know it to be a key moment in the conversation and pay better attention.

This quiet morning I think I’d favor theme music, as I make my way down the city streets. Five dollars is eased out of my pocket, one bill, kept separate from my wallet. It slides right out and goes from my gloved hand to the counter of the vender on the corner. It’s a raggedy stand, tilted an inch to the side so that change rolls off to the ground and badly in need of a fresh paint coat or at least a new sign, but the man behind the counter is one of a kind. A nice Indian immigrant who’s trying to put himself through college to be a business man, too. “New semester of classes starting this week, Amid?”

He smiles, nodding. “Accounting and e-commerce,” he replies quickly in a heavy accent most people must strain to decipher the words through. Then he hands me my change— a dollar fifty-five— and my usual breakfast— two apple pastries and a large coffee with six sugars, pre-stirred. Yes, pre-stirred. That’s the sort of guy he is. I thank him with a nod and a “Tomorrow, let me know how they go.” And I continue to work.

Up left is the subway station, direct line, underground. It saves half the cost of a cab and shaves half the time off a drive. As I approach, I drop my change and one pastry into the trumpet case to my right. That is, all but one quarter which gets me the daily newspaper.

“Thanks,” mumbles the scrappy bum whose lips look entirely too blue at the moment to allow him to play his usual tunes. There was a time when I thought he knew only two songs, ‘Taps’ and ‘When the Saints Come Marching In’. But on my birthday, just for me, he played the most beautiful rendition of Adel Wise I have ever before heard. He hasn’t played much lately, not since he broke his jaw. I had a friend check it out for him though, a doctor at the free care clinic. That’s where I’ve been getting tested since I was sixteen..

“Buy yourself something warm to drink, Love,” I tell him and reach down to rub his head affectionately. His hair is matted, oily, caked with dirt. “You got a hat? You need a hat? I’ll bring you a hat tomorrow.” He smiles, toothless, in pain, wincing but looking grateful just the same. You have to look at his eyes to see it though.

In the station, after a slow decent down the escalator, I slide my card through the machine. The turnstiles are heavy, hard to push in the cold, they could use a good oiling. I reach the platform and wait, sipping the coffee and keeping to myself. This is when I usually buy my morning paper, though I don’t read it until I’m sitting down, lest I get engrossed in a wonderful article and miss my purpose on the platform. The train comes at quarter till like clockwork, except for the days that it comes early or late.

I trade places with the same woman on the subway every day. I get on here in the mornings, and she takes off. At the end of the day, it’s the other way around of course. We find each other on the third to last car and switch. She’s a mother, evident from the bits of crumbs on her outfits and her generally tired look. Sometimes she carries on bundles from toy stores. Today she seems in an especially good mood, a cheery smile and a ringing “Good morning” to me. I give an exaggerated bow in thankful return and sit down in the seat by the wall, out of the way. I pull out the newspaper and begin to read from start to finish, every article. I taught myself how to speed read in the third grade, and to this day I’m most grateful to myself for doing so.

My stop is six later, at the high class business district where most of the passengers get off anyway. It’s only a block to my building, and I’m greeted in the lobby by warmth and Janitor Phil who thanks me for taking an extra moment to wipe my feet on the mat just inside his revolving glass door. My polished shoes tap the ritzy marble floor with each step, my own rhythm, and as close as I’ll get to theme music today I suppose. I glance toward the two glistening gold-colored elevators as I pull the door open and start up the stairs, taking them two at a time like a young boy. I work on the eleventh floor, but that has never stopped me from taking the stairs instead. My office is at the end of the hall, in the corner, though that’s not at all as prestigious as it sounds. It is on the bad corner, where one side of the building presses right up against another from floors one to twenty-five. And there is but one window. People tend to forget me, being back in the corner, out of the way. But I don’t mind. It gives me privacy to work, and today I have a stack of eight manuscripts and associated contracts to muddle through. I’ve my own suspicions as to why they put me out of the way and covered up the move by calling it a corner office. After all, some of them even know I’m going to pick up my monthly results after work today. I don’t stay in the closet.

The gold clock they gave me for my ten year anniversary here reads that I am ten minutes early to work yet. But there is no reason to put those minutes to waste. As my computer boots up for the day, I sift through my regular mail, routing out the most important looking items. Whenever a man asks me what I do, I always reply without a second’s thought that I am an executive for a publishing house. I wonder what sort of main theme song a publishing house executive gets.

* * *

I trade places with the woman on the subway as I head back home. She looks much more tired than this, and I begin to imagine her coming home to a large, hungry family and having to start dinner before she can so much as change out of her suit and high heels. I’ve talked about having children myself one day… but one of us would need to be home all day. I refuse to raise a latchkey child in the city as I was raised.

I catch a connecting train over a few blocks and emerge street-side to see smoke and flame pouring out of two metal barrels. It’s autumn, and the sun is setting earlier and earlier these days. Tomorrow I’ll come out of work and it will nearly be pitch black, but this is a bad neighborhood and I’m glad that if I have to get results today, it’s not entirely too dark yet. Maybe it’s a good sign? Several people are huddled around the fires, rubbing their hands together for warmth. One looks up as I pass and holds his hand out. Not to ask for money; he is too proud for that. Instead he waves, with a smile of recognition. I wave back and tip my head to him and his companions. I think I’ve played cards with them once. As I recall, I managed to lose quite terribly to them.

I duck into the fourth building on my right, and sigh to happily be out of the cold once more. The clinic is hardly heated, but at least the walls are solid and it’s all out of the wind. And with the number of people muddling about, the rooms are warmer still. There’s no line at the desk, so I make my way there first, bending down on the way to swoop up a little one who tugs at my pants leg. His name is Jose, if I recall, one of triplets. I set him down on my shoulders, and he giggles, rubbing his hands through my slicked-back hair and giggling. I do a three-sixty, catching the appreciative look in his mother’s eye as she breastfeeds a littler one and tries to keep the other two boys behaved and sitting on the cold cement floor. There aren’t enough chairs to go around after working hours.

At the window, I reach for the clipboard, but it’s pulled from my grasp by the secretary-slash-nurse who gives me a scolding look. “You know you have an appointment. You don’t have to sign in like a walk-in.”

I shrug, stuffing my ballpoint pen back into my breast pocket. “These people got here before me. I don’t mind waiting, Jenny.”

Her eyes narrow at me. “Yours will just take a minute and you know it. Now have a seat. We’ll call you out in a few minutes.”

It does take only a few minutes. I barely have time to go stand by little Jose’s mother, in time to break up a brotherly squabble. “¿Cómo esta usted?”

“¡Fatigada!" she replies, pulling long black hair over her shoulder to give breathing room to the crying, suckling babe in her arms. I squat down to play a little with the boys when I’m called. Called by name, by the nurse, to the conference room. Startled, I take the boy off my shoulders, setting him down gently. Jose, obviously, is not coming along for the ride.

I step in, immediately hit by the strong smell of antiseptic, disinfectant. Rubbing alcohol. Lysol. I’d have to remember to buy more stock in Lysol when I next met with my broker. There are inspirational posters on the walls, many ripped at the bottom by patients who probably weren’t looking for that particular commercial brand of inspiration at the moment. The light is perfect, not at all too bright or too dim. I can clearly see the folder in front of me as I approach the table and give the doctor a strong shake of the hand. He confirmed my number, and opened the chart. My heart nearly stopped. “I won’t take up much of your time. Just give me the bad news quickly.” I bite my lip, close my eyes. Just like the time before, and all the times before that.

There is a pause, some rustling of papers. Then, “Your test came back negative.”

I sigh deeply, loudly. I don’t mean to, but it just happens out like that. There were ample amounts of relief, not for myself, of course. Ben. My family. Even the doctor, for no one likes giving bad news at the end of the day. I reach out and shake his hand firmly with both of mine, a technique I picked up from a fellow businessman at a conference last year. I looked forward to meeting up with him at this year’s. “Thank you.”

“Glad I could give you good news. Have a great evening.”

I nod, smile, sigh again. I don’t think my grin will die down for a long while tonight. Especially when I’m home celebrating. I’ve been feeling a little excited all day, and the thought of my man with his fire hose was not helping one bit. It was already a great evening. Stumbling over words, “Thank you, you too! Have a great evening, too, I mean.”

My feet walk on clouds, bouncing slightly with each step, as if unable to contain my energetic spirit. The night is lovely, a rich blue still in the sky as the sun is just finishing his descent. The moon has started, though, just visible over the apartment complexes. She shines brightly, bringing with her a handful of stars, the only ones bright enough to shine against the city lights. I laugh as I walk, waiting to pass a bright lamppost before kissing my palm loudly and directing it up to the moon in appreciation.

I see the face before the gun barrel, but even when I put the two together, I have not the time to act. Sudden pain shoots through my stomach. Not so much hurting as stinging, so sharp that it numbs my senses. I hear another bang. I feel the rough gravel and cement scrape my face open, but I don’t recall falling over. A strange, utterly strange sensation like my energy draining out of my body with so much blood. Coldness. Pain. I feel myself moved but cannot remember how to move back. How does an arm work again? There is movement around me, dark shapes I can make out only as blurs now. They touch me, but I can’t feel anything any more. I am aware of a sharp, excruciating pain in my asshole and I try to call out but I’ve no voice. I did hear a voice, though. Low, rough, angry, “Fag!” it spat at me. And as I close my eyes to save my energy, it occurs to me that I might not be opening them again. I suddenly feel a rush of panic amidst the pain, and I try to call out. But the pain overtakes me. Blinds every sense from sight to touch. All I can smell and taste is my own blood. All I can hear is a high-pitched squeal- is that my music? I have the sensation of being moved around, but no way to know how. No way to know anything. I want to fight back, but there’s nothing left.