Paper Moon

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1

The alarm rang, as it had done every morning for the past year, at seven-thirty. But he had woken up a fraction of a second before the bell; the release of the spring that set off the ringing had sufficed. He therefore had time, before jumping out of bed, to look over at the window and realize, from the light, that the day promised to be a fine one, without clouds. Afterwards he just barely had time to make coffee, drink a cup, do what he needed to do, shave and shower, drink another cup, fire up a cigarette, get dressed, go outside, get in his car, and pull up at the station at nine—all at the slapstick speed of Larry Semon or Charlie Chaplin.

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