It’s Sunday, 6 a.m., San Diego, and one by one soft yellow bedroom lamps are flickering on throughout the city. The sabbath has it’s working class too. At the 7-11 on Convoy and Othello a Pakistani immigrant is thinking that it is time to count the drawer. He has been thinking this thought, on and off, for the past thirty minutes. He shifts his weight to his right side when his hip starts to hurt, but the movement isn’t consciouss, nor is the pain. He decides to smoke just one more cigarette first.

Near Lincoln Ave. and Oregon St. a thin 24-year-old with pale skin and black hair stirs awake to a hard-on and a headache. The previous night floods back when he itches his nose; his fingers smell of raw salmon and cigarettes. But the girl is gone. He reaches into his Levis, adjusts his member, rolls over, and falls back asleep.

Harbor Drive. The shuttle door swings open with a jerky movement and mechanical sigh. One by one, the hunched-over contigency of welders, ship hands, and Mexican mercenaries climb aboard. The older ones, they offer the slightest nod or raised eyebrow to the driver, Frank, who has driven this same route since before the younger ones – blaring earphones stuffed into their heads – were conceived. “Next stop, port number five,” Franks says. It’s the only stop. They are the only words ever spoken on the shuttle. The intonation, the half breath between “number” and “five” has become as familiar as the creak of your screen door.

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It’s Sunday, 6 a.m. and at 4245 East Alder Drive in Kensington, the professor’s husband cannot sleep. When she got off the plane the night before, returning from a conference in Europe, something was amiss, but he couldn’t place it. And now he realized, there was no folded newspaper under her arm, no academic journal, or hardbound book with three subtitles. In baggage claim, she snuggled into his arms, rested her chin on his chest, and let out a content sigh. He is sure she is having an affair and he is nudging her gently awake; trying not to be obvious. He wants to make love to her, wants to hear her moan, feel her tremble afterwards like she hasn’t done for years.

On a sage-lined hiking path behind Moreno Lake a proud and stout 32-year-old from Oaxaca slows his pace when he feels the pain in his knees. He has been thinking of only one thing since he began his journey at 3 a.m. on the other side of la linea: his cherry red, 2001 Ford F-150 extended cab. He bought it from a police auction three months ago and could not stop smiling at the thought that an illegal immigrant can buy a truck from los polis gringos. That same day he bought new chrome weels, a chrome bumper, a duraliner for the cab, and deep in the glove compartment he stuck a prayer card of el Padre Pio. Coming to a vista which overlooks the lake below, he is glad that this time he did not pay $2,000 for a coyote to help him cross. Occasionally he pushes down a rising feeling of shame. Five days ago was the funeral of his abuela.

The drip drop of french roast is becoming a steady, steaming stream. The first batch of apple pies slides into the oven, one by one at Dudley’s bakery in San Ysidro. They won’t be impaled by plastic forks until 11:30, at the earliest, by over-zealous, middle-aged fathers on Harley Davidsons who have escaped their suburban webs in search of the remaining hunters and gatherers of their DNA.

Dowload of the day: Last Place – It’s meant to be listened to on an idyll sunday morning, when you wake up too early, and realize you can climb back into the womb of your bed, fingers folded on your chest, and stare at the ceiling until you fall back asleep.