I wake up to a knock on my door and a loud siren on Oxford Street at 10:00am on a Sunday. The cleaners are here – a young, pretty Portuguese woman who is roughly my age and her mother. They giggle as I get out of bed, grab my book, and head to the common room to nap and read on the curvy bright red sofa that sits below a black and white photo of Times Square, New York. The taxis are the only things in color, reiterating their overbearing presence. I am about to sit – dizzy, mouth tasting like death, and imprinted with marks from my sheets – when I realize I desperately need to take a piss. I stand, blood rushes to my head, and I stumble past the kitchen where my 34-year-old roommate stands making breakfast, smoking a cigarette, and walk through the narrow, white hallway to the bathroom where I stand and empty liquid onto and into the toilet. My feet are cold so I don’t wash my hands. I head back to the couch and pick up my book.
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Waking up in Essex Fells, NJ is pleasant, especially on Sunday. My sheets are kicked onto my blue and yellow-carpeted floor, and I can smell bacon and either chocolate chip pancakes or Swedish pancakes. I slowly pull off my thick blue comforter that is soft on the inside and textured with little squares on the outside and step onto my thin but cushioned carpet. I go into the bathroom to prepare for a relaxing Sunday. I turn on the shower, grab my toothbrush that is conveniently placed in a cup sitting on a glass shelf above my sink, and turn on the faucet to begin my morning routine. Steam starts to fill the room, and the smell of a breakfast is now thick.
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I am sweating when I wake up in my room at Middlebury College on Sunday. My room predictably smells like sweat. Some beer cans are still hanging out on my desk, and a pile of clothes swallows my bright blue bowl chair. I look outside at the mountains, and lift two brass handles to open the windows. Cobwebs occupy the space between the screen and the window, and it smells like Vermont. Burning fires smell like Vermont. I grab my towel and slip on my sandals. They are wet, and my feet are now slimy with soap and water. I go down the hallway to the bathroom where a sign reads: “Please stop pissing on the floor.”
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Patrick Bateman has just nailed a blonde prostitute to a large wooden board that is now camouflaged red and beige. He has drugged her to a point where there are no definite points. He has tubing and a rat. Enrique sings a Spanish song, and repeats “Vick’s Vapor Rub,” but it comes out “Bicks Bauper Rub.” His pronunciation is rhythmic – each word is a perfectly separated beat. Bateman forces the tubing sprinkled with cheese into the girl, and lets the rat free. It squirms and bites inside her. Now she is sober. The red couch looks comfortable, but only looks. It does not feel comfortable because it is cheap, and cheap couches are almost never comfortable. Its cushions look thick but barely sink when you lay down. Bateman leaves the empty apartment and goes to work. I go back to my room after they have finished.
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I walk down the green spiral staircase to the kitchen and open the door. I knew it was Swedish pancakes and bacon. There are hash browns too; I guess they don’t smell. My Mom says “good morning,” and Dad says, “hey dude” when I sit down in my chair at the kitchen table. It is a big dark brown table that can sit eight, but sits five. It used to be light brown, but the dogs ruined that one. My Dad asks what I did last night and I tell him that I went to the movies with the guys, and he asks with who, and I say Mike, Matty, Kev, Sherman, Scott, and Dani, and he says what about Durgin, and I say he had to drive his Dad to the airport, and he says what about Moose, and I say we don’t really hang out with him anymore. He starts reading the New York Times again. My Mom brings over some OJ and I thank her. She asks me what I want for breakfast, and I say everything. There are freshly made pancakes sitting next to the stove. She gets everything onto one plate, and brings it over with a folded white napkin and the proper utensils. I thank her again and start eating. I love pancakes.
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I step outside – Oxford Street. It’s packed. It’s always packed, but in London everyone seems to do all of their shopping on Sundays, so Oxford Street – shopping central – becomes more packed than usual. I step into a Nero’s and order a coffee and get my card stamped, one away from a free treat. I cross the street and head over to the bookstore. Patrick Bateman inspires me. I buy Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson and a book entitled: “Wall Street Basics” by Some Guy. I like Batman’s style – he’s smooth and an asshole; he makes people look stupid, and even others make him look stupid. I step back outside. Thousands of people surround me. I am alone and maybe even lonely. I need to fill some time so I cross the street yet again to go to the Virgin Megastore. A man brushes past me and says in an annoyed tone: “Why do you have to be so stuck up.”
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Will gets in my silver Toyota 4Runner and we start driving around. It’s great to drive just to drive. You forget about the other things that matter. It’s liberating. It’s relaxing. The environment doesn’t really like me now, but we’ll be friends again. The day is nice and the tunes are even better thanks to 106.7 – The Wizard. We head south down 7 and then take a left onto a road that goes through the mountains. He rolls down the window and smokes a rolled Bali Shag cigarette. Its smell is stronger and more aromatic than a normal chemically laced cigarette. The car is steamy despite it being freezing outside – the smoke, the ski equipment. My car is a mess: Two beer bottles sit on the floor, MacDonald’s bags stink the car further, napkins are torn and dirty, the windshield is covered in filthy fingerprint art. We drive up. The stream on the left is divided by fluffy whiteness, and the trees are droopy from dangling ice. Winter welcomes you.
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The Giants. I sit on my couch and watch them play every Sunday. Eli throws an interception most games. I think he’s under too much pressure – he’s a passive player. New York and New Jersey don’t like that – we’re aggressive. Since the people don’t like it, the sports editors don’t like him. There are lots of things wrong with the Giants – mainly their secondary. I think that it’s hard to criticize the team given that they have been to the playoffs three consecutive years, and now they are heading to the NFC Championship. Eli just needs confidence.
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The NFL makes Sunday what it is. It’s relaxing. It’s TV time. I like the atmosphere – the pre-game shows, the sandwich shop my family goes to every Sunday where we see familiar faces, the occasional tailgate, the family scattered around the house but mainly watching, my comfortable blue couch, the dogs, exercise between games, my crack in the couch, the dog hair, the sun shining through the three big windows on the right wall, the leaves falling, birds watching, sometimes soup, late lunch, small lunch, clouds and sometimes rain, the smell of a fire late in the season, the Giants win…
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Sunday is a time for music. I am alone most Sundays in London, and it is time to listen to new stuff, to stray away from my musical comfort zone. I grew up on the Grateful Dead and other folk, bluegrass, and jam bands; I was a product of my Dad’s taste. In London I found new stuff. What is popular: The Kooks, Peter Bjorn and John, Arctic Monkeys, Oasis (still), TV on the Radio, Babyshambles, The Libertines, The Flaming Lips, The Klaxons, Kasabian, Hot Chip… I sit at my computer listening in a black swirly chair. The table is small, propped up by four skinny legs. My speakers are white and have a silver volume control that is also used to click the speakers on when turned to the right. A bright green speckle of a light indicates the speakers are on. The top of the table is white and there are no drawers to put stuff in. My bed is to my left and my TV behind me. The room is white – no posters, no drawings. The carpet is beige. The room is light. My roommate’s bed and the windows are to the right – Oxford Street. The air is crispy thin and smells of disinfectant. I go down to get take out Chinese for the rest of my flat mates. We drink a bottle of red wine in the small kitchen and go to bed early. Everyone is tired. No football.
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At Middlebury I do work in my single. I try to watch what TV I can, but Sunday is a day for work here, for making up what was not done on the other days. It’s a time for learning – quiet. Maybe I can watch a movie. I sit alone with my books and maybe some music. It is cold outside but it is warm in here.
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I sit at the dinner table. Looking from the TV, I am closest on the left, Dad is closest on the right, T.J. is furthest on the right, Scott is furthest on the left, Mom is furthest center – at the head. Sunday means 60 Minutes is on for dinner. We listen to the interviews and listen to Andy Rooney: Why do we have all these pills? I don’t know. Every other night is Jeopardy and Seinfeld. Lester and Lucy beg for food. Now Lucy is old and Lester is dead. We eat early on Sundays, 6:30. Everyone is calm and relaxed. We all have company – people to talk to. My Dad asks questions, driving conversation: Are college applications done? What did you get on your spelling test? When is Ryan’s birthday party? How was the lacrosse game? Have you finished your resume yet? Have you applied for any jobs this summer? Who was at the party last night? When’s the next Sweet 16? What’s the work like for tomorrow? When’s your next soccer game? How was Eagan Field? After dinner we are all around the kitchen and the den. We do what work needs to be done, but we are all here to unwind. We are all happily dumb on Sunday. Maybe we aren’t dumb, but we are slow-moving. We are slowing down time so the week doesn’t come, so we can enjoy what is around us before it is gone.
Posted by rredmond 
