Grant’s third alarm had been blaring “Mr. Blue Sky” for the past ten minutes. He didn’t want to shut it off because it was his last one, and he couldn’t be late to work this week. It was time to get up. He flicked the covers over like the swing of a skirt and rolled his head off the pillow with a loud groan. He sat still on the edge of the bed for another two minutes.
“Sun is shining in the sky, there ain’t a cloud in sight!” The song had started over again for fourth time, but it seemed like the one hundredth. He moved his arm over the top of his phone and slapped his hand down on the snooze button. He tried to slide his hand off, but ended up just dragging the phone off his night stand and onto the floor. He took a moment to stare at his phone and contemplate whether it was worth picking up or not. All he had to do was reach down, but he also needed enough energy to get to the shower. He decided against it. He stood up slowly and waddled his way over to the bathroom, where he grabbed his crusty towel and started the shower. It took ten minutes for the water heater to kick in, so in the meantime he began brushing his teeth with the cold water. Thirty strokes for each side, fifteen on top, fifteen on bottom. He had a bad habit of leaving the water on while he brushed his teeth. Oh well, maybe running the cold water from two spots would help the hot water come faster.
He slinked into his stiff robe after drying off and made his way into the kitchen. His damp feet slapped against the hardwood floor. When his father had remodeled the house, he forgot to insulate the floor in the kitchen. Grant always talked about finishing the job, but never did. He just complained about his cold feet all morning.
The coffee pot had a flashing twelve o’clock on the timer. The pot was empty, the basin still full of water and the grounds still dry. Figures. He pressed the manual start button.
Grant grabbed the bran flakes out of the cupboard. Bran flakes took exactly ten minutes to get soggy in the milk, and it took him exactly ten minutes to eat a full bowl. He grabbed a spoon from the drawer and plopped the supplies down at the head of the table. The wooden chair clawed at the floor. As iron sharpens iron, so wood will scratch the hell out of wood till there was no use in trying to fix it. He plopped down and poured in the milk first, this kept the flakes crunchy for the maximum amount of time. He dug his spoon into the cereal like a rake into fall leaves. Just as the spoon was about to touch his lips, he remembered it was Tuesday. Tuesday meant one thing alone. It was mail day. For some reason, unlike any other person on the block, Grant’s mail only came on Tuesdays. All of it. It never used to do that. His parents used to get letters from relatives, bills, ads, paychecks, everything any day of the week but Sunday. What made them so special?
Grant’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he let out a long sigh and dropped the spoon back into the bowl. Milk splashed everywhere; that is to say milk splashed everywhere on his robe and his robe alone. He sprang up from his chair, sending it back screeching while wiping at the milk. He only rubbed it further into the fibers of his robe, so in a last ditch effort, he grabbed a paper towel off the roll and scrubbed at the white blotches. It was no use, the milk was now a resident of his robe as much as he was. He threw the paper towel down in disgust and leaned against the counter. The paper towel just sat on the floor, it might as well have been laughing at him. He wanted to strangle it.
He glanced over at the door and clenched his fists as he stomped towards it. With a tight grasp and a twist on the door knob, he swung the door open to see the little red flag perked up pointing to the sky. He rummaged around in the pile of footwear and found a pair of his tennis shoes. He shoved his bare feet in, tucked the laces in the side and strode out the door, robe flowing like a beautiful princess. The door of the mailbox was cracked open, like it was whispering to him.
Grant hated secrets.
He ripped open the jaw of the box and pulled the rubber-banded bundle of envelopes, religious tracks and other junk out and placed it under his arm. He closed the lid of the box and rummaged through this week’s mail for anything remotely worth receiving. Ten Thousand reasons. One Hundred and forty four thousand reasons. Nothing good. He took interest in a small packet that had information about how to sponsor a child in Kenya. Only a dollar a day. Grant began to walk back towards the house and stubbed his toe on the edge of the sidewalk. “Agh!” he mumbled a few cuss words to ease the pain and began walking again, reading more about children in Kenya. He got back into the house and closed the door, slipped his shoes off and made his way back over to the table. “Adia lives on fifty cents a day,” the pamphlet said, “one dollar a day could get her enough water and food to be a healthy child, just a dollar a day.” Grant glanced up, considering the implications of sponsoring a child. A dollar a day was $365 a year. That wasn’t so bad, he was wondering what he should spend the extra inheritance on.
Grant stared at little Adia’s face as he made his way over to the kitchen counter where the coffee pot was coughing at him. He snagged a mug and poured himself a cup. He lifted it to his lips, tipped it back as he inhaled the pleasant scent. The dark swamp water rolled over the precipice of the cup and made what seemed to be an audible hissing as it hit Grant’s lips. He dropped the cup, grabbing his tongue with his now free hand as the coffee mug slammed against the hardwood floor. He smacked the wad of papers in his hand against the counter. He had done the math. At the rate he drank it, it cost Grant a dollar a day to drink coffee. Now it was going to cost him at least thirty three cents more.
Just then Grant looked up to see his cereal sitting there at the head of the table, soggy. It was the last straw. Grant was a tea pot full of boiling water and his ears were the lid. He slammed his hand down on the table, “Damn it!” he screamed as he snatched the bowl off the table and dumped it into the garbage, bowl shattering at the bottom. He grabbed his stack of mail and chucked it all in after it, stabbing it down to the bottom with the end of the broom stick over and over and over.
Grant threw the broomstick on the floor, breathing heavily and staring at the bottom of the garbage can. He was going to need to buy a new bowl.
