1.5 hours

I wake up in bed. Vanessa is there, her dog Ramona is there. I'm wearing her sleep pants, too short for me, made of a black composite material. There are hearts on the legs. I look at the clock, see that it says 7:20, and freak out a bit. I head out to the kitchen, where most of my stuff is, and frantically start getting dressed. I can't find my underwear. I run to the bathroom, search the living room, and then check in the bedroom. All this time I'm running around wearing a jacket, button down shirt, socks and nothing else. Vanessa wakes up for a second, tries to help me by asking where I changed. I go into the kitchen again, and find my underwear bunched up down the leg of my pants. By this point it's 7:28. I quickly throw it on, kiss Vanessa goodbye (she's more or less asleep), and run out the door.

At this point I take out my phone to call metro-transit's hotline. Looking at my phone I realize that I'd forgotten Vanessa's clock is ten minutes fast. I calm down, look out into the darkness and see the express bus coming. It's hard to make out the numbers at first, but eventually my heart returns to a normal pace, and I stop cursing inside my head.

I get on the bus, and keep walking back, hoping for a seat of my own. This doesn't happen, so I end up sitting in the little gallery area, having to look across at a bearded man reading the Chicago Style manual. To my left is an unmemorable nothing, and to my right a pudgy woman with red hair that is clearly turning to gray or white, clutching one of those open top canvas bags. She glares at me when I make eye contact. The lights on the bus are too bright to allow for any sort of real half-sleep, so I just sit trying to ignore my surroundings.

We travel on 94 then 35 briefly, looking out at the city. The bus stops at Anderson Hall, then Coffman union, and finally in front of Moos tower. I hurry off the bus to find that I'm arriving at work at 7:35, ten minutes before my shift. I walk down into the shop, find Dennis and Rex there. I say hi to both of them, then read the onion until the phone rings at about 7:43.

On the phone is Rose somethingorother, one of the clinic supervisors. She tells me about a sterilizer door that is somehow off kilter, and how it needs to be fixed. I write down the information and try to bring it to Rex. But, he and Dennis are embroiled in a discussion about Randy Moss (how he can apparently get away with anything because he's that good) For a while, I listen to this, then Dennis leaves to his workspace.

Apparently, there is no sterilizer in the room that I was told about. So, the three of us go up to the clinic in question (8S), and ask around. Apparently it's the window gate to the dispensing station. The three of us gather around the thing trying to figure out what is wrong with it. Rex runs his finger along his white mustache, Dennis twists his finger around his dark brown curls. I see the problem immediately, but feel no need to mention it, as I assume they have it covered. It's a simple but not possible for us to fix sort of issue.

Next, I get Dennis' advice on fixing a nasty machine that I've never worked on before, a leaky grinding wheel doodle. I go downstairs, grab tools, head up and have it fixed in maybe 10 minutes following his advice to the letter. When I get back downstairs I'm full of triumph, pride, and am congratulated by Dennis for my accomplishment. Even my boss Joyce appears happy enough to see me as I cheerfully take a work order from her hand.

I go up with the intent of picking up this hazardous waste, but realize it can wait for me to quick grab a cup of coffee from the neurology clinic on the first floor of the adjoining tower, Phillips Wangensteen. I take the elevator down after sneaking onto the skybridge between the two buildings and taking a minute to gaze out to the west, at downtown Minneapolis. (The view from this bridge is amazing) And then descend to the depths. In the waiting room of the neurology clinic lies my goal, a gruesome coffee machine with Styrofoam cups and shakers of non-dairy artificial creamer (powder) and sugar. I take my cup of coffee as a trophy, and maneuver out of the room.

On my way out I pass a liver-spotted man with a countenance much like an elderly, Hmong version of the comedian Gilbert Gottfried. He looks at me for a second as I pass by, and I can't help but imagining him speaking in Gottfried's shrill voice. But then he disappears, and I do too.