Dark to dark

What do you know? I'm writing this in my office, the least used room of the last month. All of my books are in here, and the desk, and the speakers, and the printer, and, supposedly, my laptop. But mostly I've been using the laptop in the living room--well, dining room--at the table in the bay window. But then I felt guilty for not using the office as it was designed. So here I am. It feels good tonight, tv off. Music on shuffle. Lamplight with darkening Spartanburg out the window, ambulances flashing west and north regularly, two red lights pulsing on the BB&T building, the Methodist church steeple and columns glowing white. Otherwise, it's quiet.

I've been up since 4:45. And it's Saturday. Weirdly, I was excited to get up and go to work at Starbucks at dawn (6:00 am) for the first time. I agreed to cover this eight-hour shift, even though I had been excited about my first full weekend off with two jobs. I also agreed to cover tomorrow's 5:30 am - 2:00 pm shift for the thrill and, yes, for the money. Mostly, to be honest, for the money.

I showered in the dark this morning, with only the lights from Church and Henry Streets lighting the room. It was the best shower I've had in months. I can't explain why, but I do everything possible to never turn on lights here. Who needs to when the city provides enough glow? So I got clean in the dark and only turned on the light, reluctantly, to apply makeup. I got into my car around 5:45, and the sky was just beginning to lighten, to show sparse clouds. I had been thinking, while I was in the shower, when the last time was that I witnessed the turn from darkness, and I couldn't remember. Have I ever seen the sky shift? I don't remember, and I missed the moment this morning. But I enjoyed the shades of sunrise while I swept the Starbucks parking lot of cigarette butts and dug out the grossest trash can I've ever witnessed. Please tell your friends not to use the Starbucks drive-thru trash can as their personal garbage receptacle at night. Small, sensitive girls like me will have to empty it and touch your half-eaten Boots and Sonnies' shakes. And then small, sensitive girls like me will have to haul that leaking, stinking bag to the dumpster and throw it over my head, spattering, to get it in. Small, sensitive girls like me don't like this job.

One positive thing is I'm usually (am beginning to be) a closer, which means I work until 11 or 11:30 and clean a lot inside (like dishes, floors), and tomorrow I won't be the "third person" in charge of parking lots and seven-foot umbrellas but an official "opener." I will be rising at 4:15 tomorrow. Logically, I should be in bed right now. But because I'm writing and thinking about an article I'll be writing about Elizabeth Berg this week, I'm here, writing. And clinching my jaws, which I do when I'm stressed. I'm stressed because I have lingering responsibilities from Lawrence that I have to finish. And I have books I want to be reading. And...oh, boy. I'll stop there. They're petty stresses. They're only because I have put them off and, secondly, because I nap or rest too much these days.

But I'm expecting a productivity spark to kick in soon. I went to the gym at 7am on Friday, as promised. And it was good. Real good. It's probably the best possible gym that could have been put in my backyard. I mean, Scott, the trainer, goes around the machines with you. People talk to you. People care about who you are, where you came from, and why you're there. I think this will be good not only for my body but also my heart (the metaphorical one). The one that's lonely wants a family, someone to talk to.

Now, just in case I have to work bar tomorrow, could someone please memorize all of the drink recipes for me and implant them in my mind? Thanks, because the numbers keep escaping me, and numbers are nearly everything in drink-making. Since I have little faith in that, I'm going to work on expanding my Word doc cheat sheet. 2 shots in a tall Caffe Americano, 1 shot in a tall Caffe Latte, hot water to the eyes in a chai...