BB Grey–musings

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I woke up two hours earlier than usual. If you think there’s nothing to do at 4 AM, try 2 AM. Scrolled through my phone, checked my bank accounts (still disappointing), peeked at the market’s so-called wisdom, and doom-scrolled my Google News feed. Apparently, at some point, I thought following everything Musk was a good idea. Note to self: fix that.

My phone battery was already down to 92%—draining about as fast as my bank account in ‘08. Got the necessities in order, took a shower, inhaled my third cup of coffee, showered again (mentally, at least), and tumbled dry. Slipped on a black John Deere hoodie, rolled up my jeans, and laced up my black Doc Martens—the toes scuffed raw from too much time on my knees. Grabbed my Surface Pro (shiny and judgmental), tossed it in my Carhartt brown pack, checked for my keys, earbuds, and money clip, then stepped outside.

Twenty steps later, I turned around. Checked the door for the fourth time. Contemplated whether I left the stove or heater on. Then reminded myself I didn’t even use the stove this morning, so if it had been on all night, I wouldn’t be standing here worrying about it. Door locked? Check. Off I went, shuffling down my well-worn, self-made path of mud, gravel, and pine needles.

I beeped my truck open and turned the key. Diesel delay—two seconds of nothingness. Then Jacklyn woke up, grumbling, coughing, clearing her throat like a chain-smoker at dawn. She wasn’t happy about the hour, but she settled. Seat warmer: on. Steering wheel warmer: on. CarPlay connected. “Hey Siri, play YouTube Music.”

Siri, ever the overachiever, pulled up a mix of my liked songs—immediately reminding me I need to remove Band Aid’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” from the general rotation and relegate it to a seasonal playlist. Fast-forwarded past it. Eased out of the driveway, trying to be quiet while secretly enjoying the growl of the diesel. It’s like a Harley, just a few hundred decibels tamer. Can’t help it—it’s a diesel. It has to make noise.

Rolled down the street, hopped on the freeway, and hopped off one exit later—an ongoing experiment in whether Google Maps really knows the best route to Home Depot. (Spoiler: it doesn’t.) Pulled into the lot. Still dark. Parked a few rows back and waited.

The mob was gathering. Doors opened at 6 AM, but anticipation—and money—got people twitchy. Instead of pitchforks, they wielded tape measures and cell phones, carts prepped like battering rams. A low grumble spread. It was 6:01. Verizon and T-Mobile both confirmed it.

The assistant manager waved her keys behind the glass, mouthing, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, one second! Got all that? Maybe I should take up lip-reading if this gig doesn’t work out.

The doors finally slid open. Half the contractors rushed for lumber. The other half split between the bathroom and the coffee station.

I stayed in my truck, took one last sip of cold coffee, and let out a “Charge!” in my best Dodgers home-game organ impression.

Showtime.