Every morning at precisely 5:30 a.m., my wife’s cellphone emits an alarm that sounds like the ringing of an old 1970s rotary-dialed telephone.
I imagine the phone is beige and plugged into the wall with a five-foot-long cord that belongs to “Ma Bell.” The phone belongs to her, too; it came with the service. We keep the beige telephone on our bedside table. It’s too old and ugly to go into the living room. We have a black one in there.
Sometimes I wonder who could be calling so early in the morning. Surely not someone we know. Probably one of those telemarketers wanting us to buy their new aluminum siding at 20 percent off if you purchase it by Friday. But what a terrible time to approach a customer. You’d think they’d wait until 9, or possibly 10. If I were in the mood to buy aluminum siding, I certainly wouldn’t buy it from a company who wakes me up right in the middle of a perfectly good dream.
The alarm only gets a chance to ring twice. My wife is quick to silence the “incoming call.” I think about saying, “Honey? Who’s that calling every morning at 5:30 a.m.?”, but I don’t. I know better. It’s best to just roll over and go back to sleep.
Thirty minutes later at exactly 6 a.m., my wife’s cellphone emits an alarm sounding like the ringing of Big Ben, the bell in the Clock Tower of the Palace of Westminster in London.
The Clock Tower is one of two things that are easy to spot when you come out of the Westminster Tube Station located on the corner of Victoria Embankment and Bridge Street. The other thing is the crowd of tourists. They’re all looking up at the tower, amazed that it looks much taller than it does in photographs.
I can’t imagine why I’d be walking down Bridge Street at six in the morning, but I guarantee I’d jump out of my skin if those bells started ringing and I wasn’t prepared for it – just like I do every morning before my wife coaxes those bells to snooze a little bit longer.
Thirty minutes later at exactly 6:30 a.m., my wife’s cellphone produces an alarm sounding like a spaceship hovering over our bed; a spaceship full of aliens intent on mischief.
Still half asleep, I imagine the aliens are taking me to live in a Galactic Zoo for the viewing pleasure of a civilization of giant intelligent Tardigrades. I’ll be caged, obviously, but well taken care of. No chores to do. No schedule. Just bacon, eggs, coffee and toast every morning for breakfast.
Another alarm rings precisely at 7 letting the visitors know it’s feeding time at the Galactic Zoo. All the caged creatures stumble out of bed, yawn and stretch, rub the sleep out of their eyes and make their way to their feeding troughs. One poor creature who is still groggy from being asleep, stumps his toe on a metal chair, and all the little Tardigrades who have gathered to watch at the window start to giggle at his reaction.
“Honey, are you okay?” my wife asks me. I’m lying on the floor, writhing in pain trying to sooth a bruised little toe. “You know, you should really watch where you’re going. By the way, breakfast is on the table and the coffee’s hot.”
As she walks back to the kitchen, I’m pretty sure I hear her giggling.
By TRACY FARR