6 o’clock
It’s six o’clock in the morning. I know this because the night before, I instructed my iPhone to remind me of that at exactly this time, six o’clock in the morning. And just as it has for the past many years, my phone, only inches from my grasp, emits the raucous sound of a rooster. Many mornings, I usually win this battle—me versus the rooster—but today, the urge to succumb to laziness and blend in as an ordinary man among ordinary people pulls at me like a lost planet too close to a black hole. However, the rooster has other plans. Once again, it screams its raucous cry, the one that reminds me to wake the fuck up and start doing things that are unpleasant but necessary.
Eleven hours later, the daily grind of earning an honest day’s wage has come to an end. I change into something more comfortable. Eleven years removed from my days in early education, eleven years removed from mandatory mundane clothing as a requirement; yet, here I am, an adult with adult problems, and apparently one of them is the continuation of mandatory, mundane attire: a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and solid-colored tie. The only joy in my day is shedding the layer of labor and slipping into freedom as I head to my place of comfort.
So here I stand, an ordinary guy surrounded by ordinary people, facing extraordinary problems. A child finds delight in pestering his mother for the juice he likes, “¡Mamá, mamá quiero jugo por favor!” he sings repeatedly with joy, to no one’s surprise, she does not share the same enthusiasm. Behind me, a girl has just completed a “self-photo shoot”, now scrolling through her social media feeds to bask in the glory of likes and potentially drown in the sorrow of less pleasing comments.
Another tram passes by, filled with more ordinary people who have also completed their twelve-hour treadmill requirement, each with faces etched with defeat, concerns, worries, and uncertainty. In my mind's eye, I see their faces pressed against the tram windows, as if hostages silently pleading for help with their expressions.
I look over my shoulder hoping to catch a glimpse of how much longer the wait for my ride away from this day, instead the glimpse I saw was a subtle reminder. “Fuck! It’s only ten more hours before… six o’clock in the morning!”