In a small Southern city

In a small Southern city, the blanket of night was slowly pulled back.  Dark alleys and shadows retreated as the sunlight made its daily commute in from the east.  A garbage truck rumbled down Main Street and a few sleepy people stumbled out of their cars like zombies. It was 6 a.m. and the wheels of commerce weren’t quite turning..

The city needed a rain shower of caffeine to end its morning energy drought.

A nicely dressed man emerged from a donut shop with his grease-fried sugar and dough.  He was going to do his part to keep his state the fattest in the nation.  As he got into his black Toyota, a lone truck backed up in the distance: Beep. Beep. Beep.  It sounded like the city’s alarm clock going off yet again.

Sunlight reflected off the gold-tinted windows of the city’s biggest office tower, leaving a checkered pattern on the surrounding asphalt.  (In six hours, that same asphalt would be too hot to touch.)  Right now, though, a coolness still existed.  A coolness that served as a reward for those who dared being up before the rest of the world.  By lunch time, a person going outside would be greeted by a blast of heat like opening an oven on Thanksgiving Day. But not now. The heat was still asleep, too.

The truck’s beeping stopped. Silence. Like the city had hit the snooze.

A lone man looked out the window of his nearly empty office and smiled. He confidently planned his attack for the day. He optimistically plotted his victory. He was going to take on the world. And win.

Because while the world slept, he was dreaming.

All in a small Southern city.