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At 4:45 a.m. on a random summer Friday, I locked myself out of my apartment building in New York City. I had accidentally grabbed both copies of my apartment door key, forgetting to bring along a key to my building entrance. This discovery was surprising and not at all thrilling.

It was near the end of the dark before sunrise, my late grandmother’s favorite time of day. “I’m the only one up, and it’s quiet,” she used to say. She lived in a one-square-mile suburban town where lives were marked by baptisms, weddings, funerals, and the once-a-decade floods from the poorly-designed reservoir. She was a secretary at a trucking company, and in the precious hours each day before the others got up and started making noise, she sat at the yellow Formica kitchen table and read, or prayed, or just breathed. She knew all her neighbors, and I wonder if anybody ever got up to pee and noticed the kitchen light on so early in the little white house on Church Street.

This summer, my grandmother’s favorite time of day became my own. Before the chemical Creamsicle dream of dawn, there is this moment in my city when the birds begin their very first song while the moon is still bright and the rats still scurry underfoot. It is the a.m., but it feels like night to me, until it doesn’t. I like it.

I had been depressed for a little while, for a few reasons: it was the height of a hot, humid summer; I’m a writer, and sometimes we think too much; most of my friends live far away; I’d been too tired or morose to reach out to the few who live nearby; I was adjusting to a different dose of an anti-depressant; there is depression and panic in every generation of my family and you don’t drop off that tree without some worms in your juicy flesh; I am bad with money and ashamed of it; I do not always like the way my body looks; I do not always appreciate the way my body works; sometimes I feel I live in a beautiful cathedral of stained glass windows smeared with mud and even if the mud is washed off I can’t see things clearly ever or trust that I’m seeing them right; I am not a good enough friend; sometimes I am not compassionate enough; sometimes I think I will never be deeply loved by someone I deeply love in return; life is life and sometimes this is just what happens. And also, you know, the pandemic. 

I had fallen asleep at 9:00 p.m. on Thursday (wonderful!) but only slept until 2:00 a.m. on Friday (oh God, again?) Wide awake, I thought I might as well get some chores done. Depression saps my motivation much of the time, and I’ve got to focus what energy I have during the day on my job. 

I got up, put in my contacts, brushed my teeth, gave the cat fresh water, picked up some detritus, bagged it up and realized I still had time to take it to the curb before the sanitation workers collected the garbage and recycling. I peered out the window; unsurprisingly, there was no one out on my block at 4:45 a.m. My trip would be quick. Perhaps I’d come back inside, exercise, meditate, drink water, and be shockingly calm and alert when my workday commenced. My voice would be so pleasant and clear on calls. I would be so helpful and make good decisions.

I was a little bleary as I took the garbage down, but I can’t say I was miserable. Being useful, even just to my future self, puts me in a better mood.

When I realized I had locked myself out, I stifled a laugh. Really? 

I was wearing a tank top, short pajama bottoms sans underwear, ugly rubber sandals, and a sports bra. I always wear a sports bra when I am at home or running errands. This is not a sexy item of clothing. A larger cup-size sports bra resists simple sartorial definitions. It exists somewhere in the realm between lingerie and construction scaffolding. It is designed to protect you, especially if you want, or need, to run.

I didn’t let myself think about that too much as I stood outside in the dark. My neighborhood is lively and friendly, and I like to say hi or chat with folks on the street for a moment — not for too long, I don’t want to bother anybody. But that’s in the daytime.

I told myself I would not alienate the only neighbors I kind-of know — a married couple with a toddler — by buzzing them at 4:45 a.m. I would certainly not try to wake up the other neighbor I’d met, a man with whom I’d merely exchanged a few polite words over the year in which I’d lived in the building. 

I thought that even if I had my phone with me, I wouldn’t know who to call.

During the seven years I lived in the city during my first go-round, and during the year I lived here my second time around, I had never locked myself out in the middle of the night with no phone and no money, practically in my underwear. Third time’s a charm, I suppose.

I reviewed the exterior of the building. I lacked the upper body strength, coordination or bravery to parkour my way up to my window and break in. 

It was sort of still night and not yet day. What should I do? Go get an everything bagel with scrambled eggs and shoot the shit at the bodega? I didn’t have any money, and I don’t know the overnight guys well enough yet. I’d pet the bodega cat, but they don’t have one.

I decided I would focus on the moon and count to 1000. I counted as far as 300 before I noticed the birds had begun to sing with a bit more fervor, and I hadn’t seen a rat in a moment. They are sweet creatures, rats, and they take care of their own, and I assume that at a certain point they all cuddle together and sleep off the evening’s garbage-picking excursions. 

Surely it was nearly 5 a.m. now, which meant the cooks and maintenance workers and nurses and techs en route to the hospital would be walking, listening to music, nursing cheap coffees (the fancy joints don’t open ‘til 7), some FaceTiming friends and family on the other side of the world. The breakfast shift folks were on their way to the restaurants. Some of the bodegas would be receiving deliveries – fresh milk, new eggs, the day’s paper. The street lamps were still on but it wouldn’t be long before they snapped off. City workers would meet up and enter the park to empty the trash cans and trim the hedges. The first wave of joggers would emerge. 

It was still dim, but the sun was taking over in the gentle way that suddenly seems to speed up until you realize you were the blooming flower in the time-lapse photography video. I went to the park, and there were people, and there was a little meadow where dogs were off their leashes. It seemed like they were having a great time. The people seemed happy as well. These early-morning types, whether jogging alone or walking in twos or threes, no matter their age, smiled at me more often than I would expect, like we all knew the same good secret. I smiled back. 

I heard a sharp thwack, thwack, thwack and realized there were human beings playing tennis on the tennis courts. This shocked me because I could not imagine why anyone would want to play a sport before, say, 9 a.m. I went and looked at the tennis people. They seemed as cheerful as the dog people, the walking people, the running people, and the t’ai chi people.

Is this a cult? I had met morning people, but these were early morning people, and there were a lot of them.

I sat on a bench to watch the dogs run around and the people walk by. More people showed up, and more dogs, and soon people hurrying to work, and I can’t tell you when the moment was, exactly, but the quiet sweet first breath of early morning turned into day and all was hustle and bustle and normal.

I went home. I figured it was after 6 a.m., and it was. I didn’t want to wake the little one in the home of the neighbors I sort-of knew, so I buzzed the neighbor I don’t know so well, a guy who lives alone. No response. So I took a deep breath and, horrified that I was absolutely definitely going to bother somebody and hoping I wouldn’t wake the toddler, buzzed the little family’s apartment. The dad walks to work at the hospital every morning, and I hoped he’d be awake. 

I apologized when he opened the door. He was gentle, said it was okay, it happens, and expressed concern that when I said I had been locked out since 4:45 a.m. He said the baby hadn’t woken up. I’m not sure if that was true, but I appreciated that he said it.

“Go get some sleep,” he urged me. I said I would. 

I didn’t. I slammed some coffee, I fed the cat, and I started my workday. I was pleasant on work calls. My voice was clear. 

Exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep at 9 p.m. without setting an alarm. I woke up in the in-between again, before dawn. This time, I smiled gladly. I dressed in the dark, with proper underwear and sneakers, took my phone and the right keys, and went out to see the world start over again.