6 am. The Nagel household. Although we live on a pristine farm in the Winelands, I am not awakened by the gentle crowing of a rooster. (The rooster gets up at 10 am. It’s why I haven’t killed and eaten him yet. So basically, there is only the thin veil of my waning Judeo-Christian ethics keeping me from bludgeoning DW and feeding him to my faithful rooster, Scraffito.) No, instead, I’m hearing the tinny sound of a Jamaican steel drum band emanating from D-W’s blackberry.
ESSIE: “Turn that fucking cell phone alarm OFF!! ITS 6 AM, YOU KNOW YOU AREN’T GOING TO GET UP!”
DW: “I’m getting up!”
DW (falls promptly asleep)
6.15 am. Jamaican steel drum band starts up. And at 6.30 am. And 7. 7.30. And then at 8. DW once again proves immune to sound of irie jammin’. At this point I start having disturbing R.E.M sex dreams involving the Beach Boys and surfboard wax.
ESSIE: “TURN IT OFF!”
DW: “You’re just not a morning person!”
ESSIE: “Bullshit! Look how cheery I look!”
DW: “God, that’s creepy.”
ESSIE: “It’s not creepy. It’s cheery.”
DW: “I’m going to take a picture.”
ESSIE: “Like hell you will.”