Freak. Out.
By WREN ANDELAI

Brubeck. The radio alarm blares Brubeck and I'm sideways in bed. 5/4. I try to count it. Something about this song makes me think Barney's going to leap out of the shitter to say hi, or that the light switch will inflate balloons.

Shirt. Shirt somewhere. Sandals. Toothbrush. Beans in the grinder, milk on medium heat. The tile is frigid this morning. Three messages. I don't remember any calls yesterday.

French press. I extract it from three days of dirty dishes. The sponge is a lost cause. Tap. It takes a minute, but the tap delivers hot water and I rinse the press and soak my cold hands. Cold. Why is it so cold? I dry the press on my shirt and pour in the grinds. I'm almost shivering.

Bullied. Out the large east window the sun is getting bullied by fat folds of gray clouds clinging to the butte. A few halogen lights hang on to night down in the valley. The light is flat. Maybe it's my eyes. The ground looks different.

Smell. Something smells different. I whiff my left pit and look around the room, half expecting friends that aren't there to laugh aloud. I check the milk carton—two days left. Sap. My hand lazily brushes the solid beads of sap on the splintery column. The cool house lacks its usual fir smell. Is that what smells different?

Hair. The hair on the back of my neck. I run to the kitchen blinds to find out. I open them up to see the pines standing diffuse and still. Silver. Maybe it's my eyes. I look down to the grass. Silver. Silver sparkles.

Frost. The first freaking frost of the goddam fall!

Walk. Work can wait. I grab my coffee. I put on my helmet and goggles. I'm going for a walk in my ski boots.


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