BB Grey–musings

Morning crashed in like a drunk stumbling through my door—too damn soon. I squeezed my eyes shut, faking sleep, hoping the dark would swallow me back. Didn’t work. My head flickered with the big shit—the kind that jolts you awake at 3 a.m., all jagged edges and no mercy. I told myself it was just a dream, but that lie folded faster than a cheap lawn chair. So I bent myself upright, swung my legs over the bed’s edge, and waited. Feet dangled. Didn’t hit the floor. For a split second, I wondered if I’d shrunk overnight or if hauling fifteen beams yesterday had finally pulped what was left of my knees. Too much to unpack, so I went with shrinkage—less paperwork that way.

I slid off the mattress, shambling toward the kitchen like a hungover Bukowski, weaving through a gauntlet of teetering book stacks—Jenga towers of half-read bullshit, three or four high—and the invisible gravel my bare feet somehow sniffed out like bloodhounds. Remnants of the stone path from the front door, probably. I reached the Keurig, jammed in an extra-bold pod, cranked the water-down dial to “fuck you” strength, slammed the lid, and stood there, waiting for the caffeine drip to hit my veins. Keurigs are lightning-fast until you’re a zombie—then they crawl like a busted clock. Screw it. I shuffled to the bathroom to drain the tank, prepping for the triple 10-ounce refill that’d come courtesy of my predawn brew.

Flicked the light on—mistake. Caught a flash of my face in the mirror: a swollen, creased mess, pillow scars raked across my smaller right eye like I’d taken a cricket bat to the skull. Hell’s own portrait. Splashed cold water on it, thinking it’d tame the puffiness. Ran wet fingers through my over-gelled hair, praying it’d stick and not flop over my face like a bad toupee. No dice. Gave up, trudged back through the shifting maze of books and phantom gravel, grabbed my cup, and dragged my creaking bones to bed. Heater’s too slow to warm this flat—I’d be out the door before it even tried.

Propped four pillows in a sloppy pile, pretending they’d hold me together, sank back, and slurped the coffee. Time to plan the day.

Running a construction crew’s like dealing a deck of cards—start with a full hand, then watch half of ‘em vanish before noon. Joe, my lead, was already a ghost—something about a court date he “forgot.” Robby’s the joker in the pack—guy doesn’t own a phone, so him showing up’s a surprise bloom in the wilting bouquet of my team. Some days fresh, some days bruised, mostly a mess. Construction’s finest, my ass. Today’s lineup? Less the long-stem roses I’d pictured mid-sip, more a fistful of yanked wildflowers, roots and all.

Oh well. Another day at the shitshow flower mart. Coffee’s done its lap through my kidneys. Time to roll.

***A little heads-up for you readers: I devoured Charles Bukowski’s Pulp last night. Chuck’s rawness and that dry, gut-punch humor always get me—lit the fuse for this morning’s journal scribble. Yeah, I’m still grinding on Saturdays. God did, didn’t He? Sure, there’s that Sabbath rest rule, but even that I bust now and then—sue me. The grit and the swearing? Probably not the “proper” move, I get it. But I’m in construction—don’t talk like this myself, mind you, but I hear it all day long, bouncing off the beams. Picked up the rhythm of it, I guess.