When
I Make My Ears Listen:
I hit the streets regularly at six o’clock
in the morning, but do not mistake me for a morning person. A seven to three
hospital shift demands an early bedtime and early awakening. I have yet to
master the former, but I do make a point of getting up on time. This morning I
cut my self shaving, shampooed twice, and struggled through a breakfast of
terribly made coffee and the end of a sleeve of Ritz crackers that I’d
neglected to put away the night before. Needless to say, I don’t necessarily
function at peak levels this early, but I worked very hard to focus my ears as
I walked out onto a brisk and windy 20th street.
There aren’t many people out and
about at six in the morning, but the first thing I hear is the rapid rhythm of
footsteps behind me. The morning jogger is the only individual that I’m guaranteed
to meet each day. Her breathing is heavy, a counter argument to the rhythm of
her footsteps. A third counter beat escapes softly from her headphones. She
turns the corner and is gone.
Along the empty side roads of an
early morning, you can hear a car approaching from surprisingly far away. It
begins as some sort of gentle buzzing, gradually getting louder as it
approaches. Finally it swooshes past, with a clear disregard for speed limits.
A bike squeaks by, gliding against the traffic on the wrong side of a two way
street. A parking garage attendant speaks rapid, mumbled Spanish into his cell
phone. He offers a friendly nod as I pass.
The trees and wind make more sounds
than I’ve ever noticed, as maintain unsteady conversation in long rolling
whispers. The light chirps of small bird pop up here and there. As I approach
the main street of 1st Avenue motor-vehicle noises swell. One motorcycle
rides by, without a muffler its engine screams. The driver of a large Budweiser
delivery truck cannot resist the urge to honk his thunderous horn at 6:10 as a
yellow taxi almost cuts him off. The taxi’s retort involves a far less
threatening, but still obnoxiously loud horn. What a bunch of assholes. A
modern nomad pushes a creaky cart down the uneven sidewalk. Everything he own
sits in that cart, including a radio that produces a static rendition of
something soulful, rescued from the 70’s.
