The 5:30 AM alarm sounds. Before it blares for the second time, my hand slaps it dead. Not that I needed the alarm. The body knows. The mind knows. I train myself well enough. I check my watch. We're already cutting it close.
I'm up. Sheets kicked. Feet on cold wood. Body moving before the mind catches up. It's the three P's, baby:
Precision––because every second needs to be accounted for.
Preparedness––because every move must be planned.
Punch––because a man's got to hit the day before it hits him.
Shower. Cold. Cold showers build resilience. Read that somewhere. Toothbrush in one hand, shampoo in the other. Momentum. That's the game. Out of the bathroom, I glance at my watch. 5:40. In the wardrobe, the suit is navy with a solid crimson tie. I'm a big fan of the Half-Windsor. It's less bulky than the Full Windsor and sharper than the Four-in-Hand. Shoes? Aldens. Polished the night before.
Downstairs, coffee's black. No sugar. No cream. No nonsense. I drink it too fast and it burns my tongue. Doesn't matter. I barely taste it anyway. The microwave blinks "5:45." I flip over my watch to confirm. Ahead of schedule. I allow myself a half-smile.
There’s a woman still in my bed. My wife. I should say something. "Love you," or maybe "See you tonight." I don't. Not because I don’t love her, but because it's implied. The same way oxygen is implied. You don't stop to acknowledge it; you just breathe and move.
I move.
Out the door, down the steps, onto the street. I check the watch. 5:50. Better get moving. Cars hum down the road. Pedestrians march in formation. The air is crisp, biting. Wakes me up better than the coffee does.
The city breathes differently at this hour. Not quite awake, not quite asleep. The in-between. The kind of time when the real players move––before the amateurs start clogging up the sidewalks with their slow strides and lost stares.
The train station is a few blocks away––5 minutes if I walk briskly. The path is engraved in my memory: through the alley, past the newspaper guy, and past the bakery (I time my arrival at the exact moment the final pastries are placed inside the display case).
As I reach the station, I tilt my wrist again. 5:56. There's a line for the escalator so I take the stairs. The turnstile is also clogged. Some lady fumbling with her pass. I clench my jaw and tap my feet.
I soon squeeze past. The train screeches in. 5:59. A single beat to spare. I step in as the doors hiss shut. I slide into a seat. Adjust the cuffs. Exhale. Look out the window. The city's moving. I’m moving. Everything's moving. Check the watch. 6:00. Perfect. I glance at the train map. Let my eyes trace the route, every stop. Not because I need to. I know where I'm going. But it's habit.
I scan the car. Same crowd, same suspects. Newspapers. Screens. Blank expressions. Then, I see them.
A row of men. Older. Much older. Suits wrinkled. Collars loose. Dress shirts stained. Like they've been riding this train forever.
One rubs his eyes slowly, trying to remove the mucus from last night's sleep.
Another runs a hand through what little hair he's got left.
A third checks his watch.
I tap my thumb against my knee. Clear my throat.
"You guys headed to my stop?" I tap the destination on the map.
Slow nods.
I give another half-smile.
Flip out the phone. Adjust the tie. Check the watch.
The train keeps moving.
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