Nyc, Ny

New Yorkers have been long accustomed to the constant howl of traffic attempting to meet with its destination (and failing in the time allotted) and manage to sleep through its blare and the bustle of New York City. Inside the unofficial confines of the seething metropolis slithered long bodies of people making their hurried way to wherever (whenever and whatever) they sought. The noise was inevitable but was scarcely noted by those who had lived there some amount of time. It was all uncomfortable, competitive, and utterly intoxicating to dwell in the pregnant womb of this city whether one was a native or not. Donovan Grey was not a natural New Yorker and still battled the soft, carefully unemployed Texas drawl that insisted on rising at the most inopportune moments. Yet he had been here, in this filthy fabulous city, since packing his dreams into a suitcase and moving to the land of promising job openings four years ago. Those lofty aspirations had long gone on home to Plano but Donovan's heart had kept his body in New York City and his mind on something (anything) to do for money.

The alarm was rattling to life with the jarring, panicked wail of an animal caught between the iron teeth of a trap. Six o'clock. Four hours of sleep. He moaned deep in his throat and sought the conveniently over-sized button that would silence the irritating initial sounds of morning. It died in mid-screech as his deft fingers (honed quick and precise by thirteen years of guitar-playing and five of speed-typing) found their target and descended roughly. It really was a horrible alarm clock but he must endure its ugliness or risk sleeping through his rousing call. The dingy gray of ancient white washcloths was the only light in the room, aside from the demonic red glow of the clock's digital numbers. The pale watery glow came in through a scarcely-foot-wide window that squatted above a small sturdy dresser. It was a sparse but well loved room in an equally unimpressive three-room apartment, yielding only a small hoard of personal possessions and a large collection (hung from hooks that lined the right wall as there was no closet) of pristine suits intended for use at the office. Between lofty bills (considering that to find a place without roaches on his salary was costly), food, replacement guitar strings, and those damn 'professional' clothes the young man had very little finances to indulge himself with. Donovan was but a young, uneducated accountant who had been fortunate enough to charm his way into a passable office career.

Donovan rolled onto his back with another groan of frustration, highly displeased with this 'waking at ungodly hours' nonsense. It was not so imperative to their executives if the lowly employees arrived at nine, was it? Of course not... but they did so love to goad their underlings. He was not due to work until eight today yet the two hours in-between would be spent without pause. He must perform bodily maintenance (shaving, combing, eyebrow-shaping, and thorough moisturizing of his temperamental skin) before dressing, then make and eat breakfast, and walk the single mile to his dear little cubicle unhindered. It was a long process that required concentration and time. Therefore it was time to lever himself from the possessive clutch of his lumpy bed and seek his outfit from the six starched identical suits. He yawned with all the unabashed wideness of a lion and crawled (literally) from his blankets and across the chilly hardwood floor.

He wished longingly for a dog (which his mother had kept in droves back home) to liven his home rather than the still, standoffish haze of emptiness. The apartment was shrunken and rather ill-cared-for (the facets chipped with walls in a sullen shade of yellow once white) and Donovan was depressed to be alone inside its uninviting confines. He tried not to spend very much time inside it. It might have been worse, he reflected, if his job paid any less. At least he had yet to find solid evidence of a roach, though he could not say the same for the rodents. As he stood heavily and passed from one room to the next he yawned and stretched his spine like a cat, allowing his flexible back (which he was fortunate to have kept limber considering how much time he spent at a desk) to ripple and familiarize itself with being up and about. Scratching at his hip he crossed the kitchen/living room to the counter and jiggled the light switch. It flickered on, dimming once before springing to dazzling full life. The glare startled Donovan for a moment and he covered his offended retinas with tattooed fingers. Once his eyesight adjusted and ceased to complain he lowered his hand and reached for the refrigerator door, tugging it open with a dull suctioning sound. Inside sat various foodstuff items, including wilted celery and a thick block of tofu. He sought the large bottle of clean water and maneuvered