On the day the world ended, Wyndham didn’t even realize it was the end of the world–not right away, anyway. For him, at that point in his life, pretty much every day seemed like the end of the world. This was not a consequence of a chemical imbalance, either. It was a consequence of working for UPS, where, on the day the world ended Wyndham had been employed for sixteen years, first as a loader, then in sorting, and finally in the coveted position of driver, the brown uniform and everything. By this time the company had gone public and he also owned some shares. The money was good–very good, in fact. Not only that, he liked his job.
Still, the beginning of every day started off feeling like poop. You try getting up at 4:00 AM every morning and see how you feel.
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(He couldn’t tolerate the radio before he drank his coffee.) He always turned it off right away, not wanting to wake his wife. He showered in the spare bathroom (again, not wanting to wake his wife; her name was Ann), poured coffee into his thermoss, and ate something he probably shouldn’t–a bagel, a Pop Tart–while he stood over the sink. By then, it would be 4:20, 4:25 if he was running late.
Then he would do something stupid : He would go back to his bedroom and wake up the wife he’d spent the last twenty minutes trying not to disturb
“Have a good day,” Wyndham always