Have Couch, Will Travel Pt. 1

“…bacon and eggs” the voice faded in.

“Wha-?’ I replied. My eyes weren’t open yet but the morning sun through my eyelids was blinding and warm on my face. The birds were chirping and there was a faint whisper of a just-right breeze coming through the open window near the head of my bed. I could feel the blue of the sky and the wisps of white that striped it. I was lying on my stomach, left cheek smooshed into the pillow while my right arm came from underneath my tangled sheet and dangled over the side of the bed.

“…bacon and eggs for breakfast” the voice said again. I was only slightly more coherent but willing to overcome that for bacon and eggs. At that unreasonable hour I didn’t have much of a grasp on reality but I fully understood hunger.

“You’re going to make that now?” I asked deliriously, eyes still closed, face full of clean cotton sheets. I don’t know how she understood me; the pressure of the pillow had distorted my mouth so that only my lips and tongue were still able to form anything that resembled language.

“…after church.” The words came through the shapeless void like the beam of a lighthouse passing over me. And, like a lighthouse, I knew exactly the doom they told of.

Somehow, I managed to swing my legs over the side and carefully, I used their weight to rotate myself to a sitting position. With my feet on the bed rail I fought the lightheadedness I’ve been feeling every morning for the past few years and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

Easter Sunday. One of two days when even the most wayward of Catholics absolutely must attend church. With everything closed, I don’t think they can come up with a good excuse to not. For three and a half months I’d been able to avoid the early morning wake-up that preceded the walk around the corner to Holy Rosary. Not today.

I had lived on my own for the better part six years, blissfully unsupervised and secular. I rarely came back to my parent’s house during that time. If I did, it was only for a night or two. Rarer still, was my presence on a Sunday morning and for good reason: my parents liked the early mass. Throughout my adolescence this usually meant perfectly good Saturday nights lost to reasonable bed times. It was a cruelty akin to having a test the day after your 21st birthday or getting the early shift on New Year’s Day or having a weigh in the day after Thanksgiving. Routinely, I was roused at 8:00am, I dressed, and then stumbled out the door whether I was awake or not.

Come on, it’s just one mass. Looking up over the tips of my fingers I surveyed my room and sighed. The sun streaked in through the dusty window panes and illuminated everything with the suggestion that summer wasn’t too far off. Boxes were still piled up, full of books and other belongings, hastily stacked into towers. Feet on the rug, I shuffled over to my closet and braced for the icy cold of the hardwood floor on my bare soles. What to wear? I picked my dark grey suit, white shirt, red tie. Sure, it’s not bright and cheery, but neither am I.

“C’mon! We’ll leave without you!” my mother called up the stairs. They always promised but never delivered.

I dressed as quickly as I could in pants with two buttons, a slide clasp, a zipper, and a belt. Once my unmentionables were on lockdown I slipped on my shoes and walked downstairs wrapping a Windsor around my neck. If there was one thing I took away from twelve years of Catholic school it was the ability to tie a tie running at full sprint, blindfolded, and in less than 7 seconds, and have it look good too. “Well you certainly look nice” she said when I entered the kitchen. I poured myself some lucidity from the pot, two scoops, a little milk.

“Mrrf...” I grumbled into my coffee