A Good Day

Everybody has one of those days where they wake up and know everything is going to be infused with some kind of unexplainable magic. Well, yesterday I had one of those.
I woke up tangled up in my sheets, caught like a fish trying to escape my own netting. I fumbled for my glasses and slid them onto my face. The clock read 10:12. Not too bad for a Saturday. When I put my feet on the ground I could feel the dust and lint from the corners of my 60 square foot living space spiraling into my lungs as I inhaled. There was a pounding on the front door of the apartment. “Poosh za door! Poosh za door!” my elderly Polish landlady yelled in a cadence that I repeated to myself in a whisper, Poosh za door. Visitors. She always has guests over but I never see anyone else in the apartment, only hear their voices. Soon the clanging of pots, the rush of the faucet, and conversation saturated the hallway. On my windowsill a shade of golden sun lightened and darkened with the passing of the clouds. Kids were outside on the street, laughing. A semi-truck backed down 112th street, its loud beeping almost directly outside my window. I went into the bathroom to pull myself together for a day of anticipated productive work.
The bathroom is kiddy-corner to my bedroom door, so I have the most convenient access to the toiletries of my two other roommates. But the door doesn’t lock. And we’ve been out of toilet paper for the past three weeks. I’ve been using quilted paper towels that I hide in the cabinet below the sink. There is a skid mark on the inside of the toilet bowl that I am confident cannot be traced back to me. It’s been there for a while too. I laugh each time I look at it. The girl’s hair sits in clumps all over the floor. She leaves her long, brown, curled strands all over the place. It reminds me of my days doing maintenance as a Lifeguard at the local pool, cleaning the gutters. The guy’s shaving remnants are stuck to the insides of the sink bowl. And then there is my medium length hair scattered in between theirs. No use in trying to clean this mess up every time. I showered quickly, hoping that my landlady wouldn’t accidentally open the door during my drying off again.
In my room I played some music as I got dressed, deodorized, and doused myself with cologne. Breakfast was the usual cup of instant coffee and a quick slather of nutella onto a 10 second microwaved bun. I feasted on my delicates while I checked my email and did some scribbling in my notebook. After about an hour I left, wrapped in my long coat, scarf and hat, and escaped quickly out of the musty apartment without seeing a face.
I made my way north on Broadway to Columbia’s School of Journalism building, burying my head in the crook of my jacket. There is a café there that I am quite fond of. I ordered a fatty Italian sub on wheat. They know me here. They nod every time. After a quick sandwich inhalation in front of the silent TV screens in the dining area, I sauntered over to the main library and spent about a quarter of an hour looking for a place to sit. Another cup of coffee, a pile of books next to my computer and I remained unmoved from my seat for three hours. Then, I spent 20-minutes recovering, doing some stretches, some bathroom action, and wandering amidst the shelves and shelves of books. When I returned to my spot, I spent two more hours reading, typing, emailing, writing, and studying the behavior of other students.
After my ass had atrophied to an almost non-functional state, it seemed like a good time for dinner. Upper West Side Market is my choice venue. That night’s selection I went with the chicken parm, roasted potatoes, and Jerusalem salad. This specific meal is crucial to the maintenance of my happiness. I trudged back to my dingy apartment. The lights were all off except for the living room at the end of the hall. I remember the voices and the lights spilling from the television were comforting to come home to. Back in my room, I hunched over my food as I watched an episode of “The Office” on my computer. I laughed out loud the entire time, repeating lines to myself. A friend called, Pete, we talked for about 20 minutes before I jokingly scolded him for wasting my time. But really, I don’t have much time to spare. I changed, jumped in bed, and dived back into a book.
It is only until about an hour or so into reading that I start to realize what’s happening. It’s a small, insignificant passing of a thought, like the ripple a drop of water makes in a large lake. Today was a good day. I made it alive.