I didn’t like the clock. I didn’t like the way it rang until I lurched out of bed and beat it into submission. I didn’t like the sun, either. It was shining. And the birds were singing. Didn’t they know it was 5:45 in the fucking morning?! The lights in the bathroom were too bright, the towels were too rough, the soap bar was too small, the floor was too cold, and so was the water that flowed from the faucet labeled H. I forgot about my bruises and stretched, then remembered every one. They were now turning an ugly yellow-rust color. I looked diseased. I cut myself shaving three times. After years of using an electric razor I had lost the knack—at least that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it. My new sports coat and shirt were stained from the champagne, so I wore my other jacket and dirty shirt, instead. I packed the rest of my belongings in a paper bag with King’s One-Stop printed on both sides and escaped to my car. There was a lot of traffic on the county roads, and it infuriated me.
