The alarm clock burrs softly, persistently. It takes me a moment to roll over. I'm still sleepy, and the aqua numbers look like a watery blur, but I can read them. Two sixteen. I slide the button to the left.
I swing my legs out of bed and land on the carpet. There's nothing to shed; I sleep naked. This is unnecessary, but I do it anyway: I pull on a pair of black underpants. It gets me into the right mood. I slip on a black tee shirt as I'm walking toward the closet. Black jeans. Black belt- I didn't earn it; I bought it. Buckle painted black, nothing to glint. I open the dresser and choose black socks. A compromise. They're argyle. I always wear argyle. Back to the closet. Deck shoes. They have no distinguishable tread, and I can slide right into them. They're brown. Dark brown. I like them.
I stop in the bathroom, but there's no need to splash my face with cold water, as some people do. I've felt totally awake since my feet hit the floor. Out to the hall closet for my black beret. The final touch. Back to the bedroom. I examine myself in the mirror. Only two things displease me: I'm getting fat. And I resent the white patch in my beard.
I pick up a pencil flashlight from the dresser, drop to my knees, and slide a small canvas kit, rolled tightly, from under the bed. I check my watch as I head out the door. Exactly two thirty.
I bump the car behind me on my way out of the parking space. Pure carelessness. I'd had plenty of room. I believe a neighbor saw me. I make a show of double clutching on my way down the street. I don't know, perhaps he'll think the car was being balky and excuse me. I turn on the radio. FM gives me static or rock and roll. AM gives me news or a local talk show. I choose the talk show. They're interviewing a minor prosecutor from the Watergate era. I switch back to FM and find a country station. Some lady, sounding as if she had a head cold, is singing about how lucky she feels tonight. I can relate.
I'm not even in a hurry. Uncharacteristically, I wait for every light. I'm already swinging into Suicide Circle by the time the lady with the head cold gives way to a commercial about a car dealership who's sponsoring a professional wrestling match. Back to the talk show.
I pass Waldbaums on my left. A police van is pulling out of the parking lot, lights flashing. Poor move. That's a damned hard store to stick. Good security. But I don't spare a thought for whoever is in the back of that van.
Down the street, then left right right. I'm on the road I want. I cruise past a house that I've selected, and have been watching for almost a week. I drive up and down several streets. I'm having trouble finding a parking space I like. I brush my tires against a curb, finally find a space, roll up the window, and shut it off. I try to exit the car casually, but it's hard. I'm at the street like a horse to stable. I slow my pace because I have to. The night air blows cool on my naked face.
There's my house again. I walk around it once, although I know exactly where I'm going. Around to the side. No houses in back, but the porch creaks. There is a house close to my chosen side, but there're trees between the houses. I guess they don't want to see their neighbors. That's fine with me.
The lock is too easy. The wood is soft, rotting. The window is up in a minute, and I swing inside and close it quietly behind me. There's nobody around, but if there is, they won't be suspicious of an open window. There are two floors. I start at the top.
The bundle is heavy, just this side of awkward. Everything in it was chosen hastily, but very carefully. I take a last quick tour, looking out the back and side windows. Out again, body first. Never, never bundle first. It always makes a sound. I retrieve it, and close the window behind me. I duck around back, quickly now, along a well-rehearsed path. I reach my car without ever having been on a street. My bag is on the passenger's floor; it's my favorite passenger.
I drive across town almost without incident. The only moment is when I turn to look out my window at two guys who sound like fisticuffs are only a moment away. I swing my eyes quickly back to the road, and have to jerk the wheel sharply to the right to avoid the median strip. I cruise my street until I find an easy parking space. I get out of the car gratefully. My driving rotted tonight. I go upstairs quietly, thinking, not sadly: "All this stuff'll hardly pay my bills." You win some, you lose some.
Upstairs now, I lock my door and hang my beret on the hook just beside it. I go to the bedroom, strip my clothes off, and fold them neatly. In bed, I open the porch door to let in the noise of the street, the sounds of home. I sleep naked. And God- how I love my work!