1811

I wake from a dream of riding inside a crowded bus climbing a slanting San Francisco street.  When I glance at my fuzzy digital alarm it reads 1811.

Where in the hell is my : and what kind of time is 1811?

I try to sleep again but my long departed wife starts walking through my thoughts and 20 pounds of housecat begins shredding the carpet at my bedroom door.

It occurs to me that getting old sucks.

I climb from bed and chase all 40 pounds of housecat (two of them) down the hall toward the kitchen.  The cats are silent until they reach the tile floor, which apparently triggers their meowing mechanism.

I feed the cats and then eat an overly-ripe banana that tastes like the chemical scent of cheap laundry detergent.

I sit with my computer on the sofa and press the button that makes it yawn and then sing itself to full life.

I write.

The time is 3:39.

--Mitchell Hegman