![[fiction] I never saw the morning ’til I stayed up all night](http://el-oso.net/blog/wp-content/plugins/ttftitles/cache/3dc4e3ba5185081e37c43eda5d9d74fe.png)
Posted 3 years, 12 months ago mid-afternoon by oso
It’s Sunday, 6 a.m., San Diego, and one by one soft yellow bedroom lamps are flickering on throughout the city. The sabbath has it’s working class too. At the 7-11 on Convoy and Othello a Pakistani immigrant is thinking that it is time to count the drawer. He has been thinking this thought, on and off, for the past thirty minutes. He shifts his weight to his right side when his hip starts to hurt, but the movement isn’t consciouss, nor is the pain. He decides to smoke just one more cigarette first.
Near Lincoln Ave. and Oregon St. a thin 24-year-old with pale skin and black hair stirs awake to a hard-on and a headache. The previous night floods back when he itches his nose; his fingers smell of raw salmon and cigarettes. But the girl is gone. He reaches into his Levis, adjusts his member, rolls over, and falls back asleep.
Harbor Drive. The shuttle door swings open with a jerky movement and mechanical sigh. One by one, the hunched-over contigency of welders, ship hands, and Mexican mercenaries climb aboard. The older ones, they offer the slightest nod or raised eyebrow to the driver, Frank, who has driven this same route since before the younger ones – blaring earphones stuffed into their heads – were conceived. “Next stop, port number five,” Franks says. It’s the only stop. They are the only words ever spoken on the shuttle. The intonation, the half breath between “number” and “five” has become as familiar as the creak of your screen door.
It’s Sunday, 6 a.m. and at 4245 East Alder Drive in Kensington, the professor’s husband cannot sleep. When she got off the plane the night before, returning from a conference in Europe, something was amiss, but he couldn’t place it. And now he realized, there was no folded newspaper under her arm, no academic journal, or hardbound book with three subtitles. In baggage claim, she snuggled into his arms, rested her chin on his chest, and let out a content sigh. He is sure she is having an affair and he is nudging her gently awake; trying not to be obvious. He wants to make love to her, wants to hear her moan, feel her tremble afterwards like she hasn’t done for years.
On a sage-lined hiking path behind Moreno Lake a proud and stout 32-year-old from Oaxaca slows his pace when he feels the pain in his knees. He has been thinking of only one thing since he began his journey at 3 a.m. on the other side of la linea: his cherry red, 2001 Ford F-150 extended cab. He bought it from a police auction three months ago and could not stop smiling at the thought that an illegal immigrant can buy a truck from los polis gringos. That same day he bought new chrome weels, a chrome bumper, a duraliner for the cab, and deep in the glove compartment he stuck a prayer card of el Padre Pio. Coming to a vista which overlooks the lake below, he is glad that this time he did not pay $2,000 for a coyote to help him cross. Occasionally he pushes down a rising feeling of shame. Five days ago was the funeral of his abuela.
The drip drop of french roast is becoming a steady, steaming stream. The first batch of apple pies slides into the oven, one by one at Dudley’s bakery in San Ysidro. They won’t be impaled by plastic forks until 11:30, at the earliest, by over-zealous, middle-aged fathers on Harley Davidsons who have escaped their suburban webs in search of the remaining hunters and gatherers of their DNA.
Dowload of the day: Last Place – It’s meant to be listened to on an idyll sunday morning, when you wake up too early, and realize you can climb back into the womb of your bed, fingers folded on your chest, and stare at the ceiling until you fall back asleep.
Lots of things going on. Love the music..
I really liked this story – I can almost see the city through each person. My favorite is the guy working at 7-11… I’ve always wondered what they must be thinking after standing up all night.
Hace tiempo descubrí tu pagina en el internet por casualidad (buscando información acerca de Real de catorce) y desde entonces aparte de marcarla como una de mis favoritas la reviso continuamente para deleitarme con tu estilo natural y espontáneo de escribir, esto sin querer sonar “cursi” o “barbera” .Me fascinó esta ultima historia; con la descripcción tan detallada puedo imaginarme el amanecer en San Diego, también la historia del esposo esperando por su pareja, fingiendo no saber nada de su infelidad y queriendo revivir algo que dejaron morir.En fin, hasta pronto!!!
Oso, I thank you for allowing me to read this. Made my Sunday fab. It was the LaTimes, Madrid game, and Oso’s blog today. It was actually a glorious Sunday, though a bit chilly.
Anyway, I have to say i’m that 24 year old, but with Mahi mahi on my fingertips; and since I don’t smoke anymore, it’s usually the smell of Glenlevet spilled on my hands.
espero k tu finde estaba lleno de alegria tio. Saludos de Los Angeles, ciao compa…
© Citoyen du Monde inc. 2006™
Thanks for the tunes. I always get the best music from you.
Great song.
Dave,
I agree it is a good song. I listened to a few more times and stayed up thinking about why we liked it. My anlaysis is that it a good song for the start of a new journey, or adventure like Link in Zelda or Van Damme going through his training in Bloodsport. Well I think with this song I am ready to start my own adventure
I am now a fan of Broken Social Scene, this tune is warmer and more inviting than Eleanor Rigby. The details of each of these short flashes into people’s solitude are very beautiful, and very real. Thanks, from me, too.
Sure Sparky
wow, makes my sunday look so bland. there are so many things out there in this world. Great read Oso.
Yolanda,
Just wait for Oso and Sparky’s Friday’s Favorite Flavors.
Greg,
I can tell you exactly how it feels to work the graveyard shift at 7-11 – I used to do it. It was just after I got back from Alaska … I was dead broke so I worked the graveyard at 7-11 three nights a week, took classes during the day, and did some roofing on the side. The 7-11 I worked at was on the way to Jewel’s house so I always brought in my guitar hoping she’d come in buzzed one night and agree to teaching me how to play a song on the guitar. (after which, she’d want to marry me of course). That never happened, but one night I fell asleep on the counter and my guitar was resting near my feet. The donut guy came in around 4:30 a.m. and scared the shit out of me. I woke up, kicking my guitar down and the neck snapped in two. R.I.P first guitar.
Deyanira,
Son comentarios como este que me animan a seguir escribiendo. De veras. Muchísimas gracias por tus palabras. ¿Que tal estuvo Real de Catorce?
Alejandro,
Thanks for the kind words pana. I’d love to knock glasses of Glenlivet some day soon in the city of angels.
Xolo,
Glad you liked it. I’ve been listening to your mix quite a bit lately. I think one of the tracks might make it onto an episode of Oso and Sparky’s Friday Favorite Flavors.
Sparsh,
Where is the supposed “treatise” about why we like this song. I need more than, “you know, when you’re staring out an airplane window.” And stop with your selfish words of “my own adventure.” I’m part of this team remember.
Patri,
I am a chronic listener of Broken Social Scene. The more I listen to it, the more I want to listen to it.
Cad,
Many things in the world, yes, and it seems like they’re all coming closer and closer together.
Finally,
I’m surprised that no one pointed out how much this post depends on stereotypes. The short, stout immigrant from Oaxaca, the Pakistani in a 7-11, the hipster in Levis … it couldn’t get any more cliche. Only the female professor breaks any kind of social norms.