On the Futility of Waking Up In the Morning

The alarm rang. And it rang. And it rang. Edgar flopped over. He hit snooze button on his alarm clock as he groaned.

He rolled back once.

He rolled over once more.

He had rolled over too much, lost his balance, and fell.

"Oof," he exhaled as he hit the floor.

He wasn't happy to be awake. No, not one bit. He was convinced that his eyes hated him for making them open at that ungodly hour every morning. This morning, they simply refused to open.

"Ragghh," he muttered, scrunching his face up. He moved his arms out from underneath his torso, lifting each half of his body for each. He made sure to moan each time so that his body would know how much pain it was causing him.

Maybe, he pondered, it was that eye stuff that accumulates when you sleep that is keeping them shut.

He moved a hand up to feel each eye.

No, that wasn't it.

He tried to get up to take a shower. Lying naked on the Persian rug was not fun, no matter how expensive it had been.

He didn't quite make it to kneeling, however, and he fell back down. For the second time that morning, he found himself flat on his face, for his hands had refused to help him.

Edgar lay like that for a few moments before having another go. He made it to the shower on his fourth try.

This, he noted, was rather impressive, for it normally took him two or three attempts even when he had the use of his eyesight.

After he finished his shower, having discovered that the water had cured him of his blindness, he extended an arm out of the shower curtain, making sure that none of the heat escaped, and grabbed his towel. It was a rather fuzzy towel. He had found it in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart, a great magenta blob on the ground. He took it home, washed it, and nursed it back to health. Now it kept him company when he showered.

He wrapped his towel around himself like a toga, as he was wont to do, and marched out of the shower like an emperor, and into the bathroom door, like a blind fool. He thanked God that he wasn't married or he would never live that morning down.

In any case, Edgar proceeded to pick out his Tuesday suit, which looked exactly like his Wednesday suit, his Thursday suit, and his Friday suit. In fact, the only way he could tell them apart was by the labels he put on them.

As he walked out the door, Edgar took note of the grey sky and the ominous clouds. He paused to consider taking an umbrella. He decided against it, and started walking again.

Edgar arrived at the train station exactly on time and boarded the train immediately before it left. He sat uncomfortably next to a woman who must have been in her twenties who was sneezing rather loudly. He moved his brownbag with his lunch in it to his other side. When she got off at the next stop it seemed like a blessing from above. Unfortunately for Edgar, however, a sick mother and her bawling child came on and sat themselves down next to him. He sighed a sigh of despair.

When it was his stop, he cried for joy as he bolted from his seat to the door, forgetting his lunch. As he passed through the train doors, it started to rain. He put his suitcase over his head and ran for platform. His office was just far enough not to be worth taking a taxi, but just far enough that it would get him soaked if he walked. He immediately wished he'd taken his umbrella.

He could hear his mother's voice in his head as he fled from covering to covering. She was saying, "You should have taken that umbrella, Edgar. Now you're going to catch cold!" He arrived at his office in his soaked Tuesday suit.

As Edgar stepped through the rotating doors into the marble halls where he would spend the next eight hours of work oscillating between self-pity and self-loathing, he slipped. But this was not any simple slip. This slip, had it been viewed by the Olympic judges, would have received a gold medal. It began with one foot moving suddenly forwards. As Edgar wobbled about on his one remaining foot, he flailed his arms wildly in the hopes that, perhaps, he would balance himself.

This, as previously noted, was unsuccessful. The movement of the laptop in his briefcase, which he had not considered, moved him forward. To prevent more face-on-floor action, Edgar instinctively kicked out his left foot which, until this point, had been hovering in the air. As witnesses, of which there were many, would comment later in the day, Edgar was quite the ballerina – or whatever the male form of that noun might be – that morning.

Despite whatever natural dancing talent he employed, and despite the desperate efforts of his limbs, however, Edgar found himself on the ground once more. He discovered himself by the receptionist's desk. As he looked up he spotted the edge of a little green piece of paper tucked under the overhang of the monolith. He extended an arm and grabbed it. As his co-workers, laughing, helped him to stand again, he clutched the paper in his hand. When he was alone, he investigated. It was a twenty dollar bill. He held it up. Another bill fluttered to the ground. It was another twenty.

And so, Edgar found forty dollars.

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