A siren wails its way through my bad dream.
After some waking I realise it's my alarm and after some flailing I make it shut up. When I open my eyes they're gritty and sore, ready to head back to sleep instead of the opposite direction.
The smell of coffee drifts by and carries me and my aches and pains downstairs where my wife is sitting at the kitchen table. I give her a little salute which she doesn't respond to. I say nothing as I walk by and start quietly pouring coffee down my neck.
My coffee takes me for a walk into the living room. I've always considered my wife a part-time realtor and full-time angel but as my coffee and I survey the general chaos that's a result of the living room's current use as a classroom, playroom and holding cell for the two little hooligans sleeping upstairs, dreaming sweet dreams of endless holidays, I realise she's a teacher, warden and saint to boot.
I come back to the kitchen where that same saint gives me a kiss and a good morning, finished with her meeting on Zoom or Skype or WhatEverTheFuck. She's wearing her best work blouse, laundry day panties and nothing else. When I tell her she looks sexy as hell she thinks I'm joking.
I fall into the shower, only just remembering not to take my coffee in with me. Then I go looking for my uniform shirt which - despite the fact that I hang it in the same place any day it's not getting washed - has yet again taken a walk. I find it in the room of Hooligan #2 with my badge still attached, much to my relief.
After kissing the boys' untroubled if not quite innocent foreheads, I say goodbye to the barelegged woman preparing the day's lesson plan in the living room. She tells me to be safe and I say I will, she tells me she worries for me out there and I say who me, this tough guy? Big laugh, exit stage left but I stand on the porch until I hear her slide the deadbolt and the chain closed on the other side of the door, like she knows I do.
On the drive in, I see a homeless guy sitting on what used to be a busy corner, an empty hat by his feet for change that isn't coming today. I pass a lemonade stand manned by a little girl in hazmat gear. It's dead all over but there's more cars than people this morning and she's doing a decent trade, selling her lemonade in plastic takeaway cups, straws and all, to a small row of pulled-over sugar-craving commuters. In two days, new restrictions coming in will shut her down but for now she's making hay.
I make it to work and head straight into the morning roll-out where I look over the troops, all dead eyes and bouncing knees, exhaustion and adrenaline.
We discuss the two women cautioned yesterday for getting into a good old-fashioned fistfight over jars of pasta sauce which leads to some general cracking wise. I let it play for a bit, allow some steam to vent from the room, before I rein it in and send them on their way with a "let's be careful out there".
I haven't been on the job for more than minute one before a woman's spitting rage in my face. She calls me by my name, reading it from my badge where it sits above "Shift Supervisor" and just below "Shop Smart, Shop S-Mart".
While she points with righteous fury at shelves that we both wish weren't already close to empty, I do my breathing, watch my body language, mind my manners and remind myself that now as ever, blessed are the peacekeepers.
