Cameron’s Morning by Bryan McCollum

Suddenly awake, Cameron opened his eyes to the angular red 5:29 on his alarm clock. In less time than it took him to reach the off switch, the minute had passed and the clock began a string of electronic monotone laughter. Any other day of the week he would have immediately proceeded to shower, shave, put on some layers and drive to work at the produce warehouse with just enough time to grab a cup of coffee before 6:00. Sunday, however, was his day off, and even though he recognized that the ability to sleep in had been conditioned out of him, he always set the alarm when he went to bed on Saturday evening. It was his opportunity to experience the morning hours he normally spent in the artificially lit refrigerated rooms of the warehouse, stacking boxes of fruit he had never seen from places he had never heard of. He would get up in time to take advantage of the calm, quiet city that existed before the surge of traffic to church or wherever else people felt they needed to drive. He headed to the shower then deliberately slowed down to what he felt should be a Sunday morning pace. In a few minutes he was standing in front of the bathroom sink with shaving foam covering his jaw and a razor in his hand. Lifting the razor to the usual starting position on his neck, he saw the face he was making in the mirror and realized how much he hated to shave and how strange the whole practice was. He was standing outside his apartment building within a few minutes. He quickly took advantage of the cool morning which he knew would turn to debilitating heat by noon. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Trying hard to ignore the syncopated rattling of a wandering car, he didn’t suspect it would have a dark gray cloud in tow. As if someone had punched him in the stomach, the mixture of cool air and exhaust rushed out in a cough turned gag. After cautiously refilling his lungs he spat out the lingering taste of stomach acid and decided to get some breakfast.

Walking down his street, he could see the orange and pink horizon slowly wedging itself underneath the dark blue sky. He postponed his first destination and turned left searching for a good vantage point. Another block and a right turn placed him at the edge of a hill, admiring the dispersed low-lying pink clouds hanging on the growing orange sheet of sunshine. In these few seconds of silent appreciation, Cameron witnessed the development of a third colorful feature. What must have started out as an imperceptible, golden splinter next to the sun had strayed off diagonally, leaving a long, yellow trail. The inclusion of this mysterious cloud into the already captivating interplay of colors made him feel like he had been imparted a secret that nobody else in town knew. But as it continued to grow, the end distancing itself more and more from the brightness of the sun, Cameron found that a jet plane was responsible for what now looked to him like a yellow gash across an otherwise picturesque sky, threatening to spill whatever was back there holding everything together. He recalled that there was a diner to the west so he started walking.

Cameron seated himself at the lunch counter of Flo’s Kitchen and ordered a cup of coffee and some toast. Looking around the one small room that was the diner, Cameron saw what he expected at this kind of place this early in the morning, which was a table with two old men drinking coffee and correcting each other.

“Here ya go, hon’,” said Flo. “Did you want some cream for that?” Before either having completely turned to face her or having fully processed the question Cameron said “Please,” and Flo promptly reached down behind the counter to fetch some and set it on the table. He preferred drinking black coffee to using the non-dairy sugar water she had supplied him, but for the sake of courtesy he stirred in half a container’s worth while Flo commented on the meager meal, offering her hospitality and pet names.

Hovering over his coffee and his toast damp with imitation butter spread, Cameron could not help but overhear the conversation of the two old men near the corner.

“Larry told me he’d be a little late today,” said one old man to another. “Is David Jr. gonna stop by this mornin’?”

“Naw,” said the second old man, presumably David Sr. “He’s taking the young’un out hunting soon as it warms up some. They got that ‘Rattlesnake Roundup’ going on this weekend, you know.”

“Yeah, I’d heard about that. Sounds a little dangerous to me, though, taking a kid out snake huntin’.”

“Hell, Roy, she’s already eleven years old. If she don’t get confident in the outdoors now, she’s gonna get all kinds of wrong ideas about guns and snakes. It’s only natural she learn soon.” Flo turned around to the sound of Cameron coughing, but didn’t see the yellow crumbs of toast fall from his mouth back onto the plate. He waved his empty coffee cup as politely as urgency would allow.

“But the thing is they don’t really pose a threat. I mean, I’m seventy-two and I ain’t never been bit. Hell, I ain’t ever seen but a couple of ‘em in my life. Wouldn’t be surprised if they joined the dinosaurs after a couple of these ‘roundups’.”

“Aww, that’s what they said about the buffalo, and we got a couple of them by the entrance to the state park! Junior even told me he had a buffalo burger the other day.” Dave looked up to find Flo, who was pouring more coffee for Cameron. “Hey, Flo. You got those buffalo burgers here?”

“Lord, no.”

David Sr. clarified his stance. “The point is: Unlike the buffalo, rattlesnakes don’t do no good.”

“I don’t know if that’s entirely true. I heard they actually taste a lot like chicken,” Roy said sincerely.

“Yeah, well so does chicken,” said Dave Sr., “’cept chicken ain’t vicious or deadly poisonous.”

“All I’m sayin’ is, if they’re gonna kill so damn many ub’m, might as well put ‘em to some use.”

“Naturally. Whatever they get this year they’re gonna use to make her a pair of boots for next year’s roundup.”

Roy leaned over to inspect his shoes. “Make that two pairs.”

The two men laughed in acknowledgment of a joke and Cameron lost his enthusiasm for the second slice of shiny yellow toast. He left Flo three dollars and began to exit the diner, but returned for the toast which he placed between napkins in his pocket.

The streets had begun to get chaotic. Cameron focused his efforts on enjoying what remained of the comfortable morning temperature. He sat in a park on a bench under a tree. He took the second piece of toast out of his pocket and began to scatter crumbs on the sidewalk. Birds rushed in, grabbed some food and darted back. While watching one in particular, his gaze fell on a very old man sitting on a nearby bench whom he had not noticed at first. He wore a black coat and pork-pie hat, carried a cigarette in his right hand, and rested his left hand on the oxygen tank that sprouted blue tubes into his nose. Most people would have asked themselves how old the man was and how he had made it so long. Cameron decided that he was just struggling not to age any faster than new advancements could be made in medical science, and wondered how long he would choose to go on like this. Cameron’s thoughts turned unintelligible, even to himself. He tried to distinguish between “living” and “being alive,” but he didn’t know which he was doing personally, and he really didn’t know which one he wanted to be doing.

The very old man stood up and scooted a few paces to the mound of cigarette butts that capped the ashtray. As soon as the man turned to walk away, a bright yellow bird descended into the area only long enough to grab a tattered white object and rush home. Cameron had never seen this type of bird before and doubted that he would again, so he neared the tree the bird had gone into and began to climb. It flew out again as Cameron got a leg up over the lowest branch. Cameron watched it float once more over his head, around the ashtray and back home with a fluffy white parcel. He pulled himself up to a level even with the bird and saw its nest, made almost entirely out of old frayed cigarette butts held together by some twigs.

The next day right around sunrise Cameron showed up twenty minutes late for work. He had forgotten to set his alarm. He apologized to the shift manager with a mouth full of mango that somehow fell out of the box and bruised too bad to sell.