The City Before 7

I love the morning, but I hate getting up. True story. A few summers ago my friends and I were rocking the stoops pretty hard. And with the glorious invention of Sparks Black, we were rocking the malt pretty fucking serious too.

One day, I was kind of over it. I don’t remember why, maybe it was just time to stir the pot. So, as a way to keep myself from staying out all night living the life I love, I took a job that began at 6:00am, which meant I had to be up by 5:00. It didn’t change anything except that instead of hung over afternoon bike rides to work requiring sunglasses, there were twilighted and swervey rides to work still wearing sunglasses from…why the fuck was I wearing those? Maybe it was my lack of sleep and intoxicated state, but those bike rides to work were so surreal in their nature that I figured, hell, I should really do a story on that creepy wrinkle.

Caveat:
The entire day before I got up for this mess, I was thinking about how to start the story. And it seemed like Iron Maiden was as good a place as any. “Two Minutes To Miiiiiidnight” raged through my head for 24 solid hours. I was all set to talk about how Bruce Dickinson was a pansy for thinking that Midnight was the scariest time of night, and that he should try his throat at the Gayborh- oops! I mean “Midtown Village” early morning scene, and then see what scares the shit out of him. BUT, (and as you’ll see, disappointment is a common theme in this narrative) THE SONG IS NOT ABOUT MIDNIGHT AS WE KNOW IT. It’s about the fucking atomic clock, and some anti-war shit. I didn’t know Bruce changed his name to Bono, did you? A more appropriate song to listen to while reading this article is “Ghost Town” by the Specials. So, play it if you’ve got it, and let’s go.

You know, I was totally pumped to get up at 4:30am for this. Like when I went to see that new Stephen King stinker, 1408. I mean, King’s got some sweet fucking films, but then the movie sucked. It wasn’t scary. I thought that riding around the city between the hours of 5:00 and 7:00am was going to blow my mind like an American seeing pictures from Vietnam for the first time. Really though, the scariest part was seeing how empty the city was.

In space, no one can hear you scream. That kind of feeling, except less like a tag line, and more like real life. And maybe like the few chapters of “House of Leaves” before it gets boring.

So, just a few blocks in, I was ready for breakfast. There weren’t too many people at Little Pete’s, just the staff, some woman that looked like the ghost of an art teacher, and some Greek dicks with their prize ladies (Who were all perfectly made up, except that the make up around their nostrils had strangely worn off. What was that all about?), causing a ruckus. They all lit up cigarettes, and didn’t give a shit when they were asked to leave. But, actually, as I was making notes about them, right in the middle of writing the word “dicks” they offered to pay for my breakfast. I let them. Dicks.

After breakfast, I went to Rittenhouse 1715. It’s a boutique hotel over on Rittenhouse Square Street that offers an all night concierge service.

I spoke with the guy on duty, and asked him a little bit about what it’s like being awake every day at such an eerie hour. He said that he doesn’t know why he works at night like this, because he can’t even sleep with the lights off at home. “This time of night isn’t like in New York where it’s still all these partiers out and about,” he said. “It’s more of the unfortunates roaming around. Everything is unnatural and aimless.”

And that was about it. The morning did indeed feel unnatural, and aimless. I didn’t see anything sweet, like that Rittenhouse rodeo cowboy, or dead animals, or bloody drunks, or beloved prosties of any gender. To be honest, it was kind of a bust, and I am kind of pissed. Don’t get up before noon, lesson learned. This wound will take a while to heal. So, until next week, when I’ll be poking fun at Halloween decorations, and making you super jealous with my fun Halloween week of Frightfest at Six Flags, VIP tickets to the Eastern State Penitentiary, and pissing off that guy at CVS by trying on all the costumes, but not buying anything.

Written and Photographed by Courtney Davison