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On most days, around 6:30, Sandy Jenkins would wake up without an alarm and linger for just a few minutes in silence. This was one of the best parts of his day, a time when life seemed full of possibility. He didn’t sketch out plans or set goals. Preparation wasn’t his strong suit. In those quiet moments, he would lie there and fantasize. He imagined a life filled with travel and prestigious pursuits, scenes set to soaring arias or violins. Maybe he’d be stepping off a private plane, squinting into the distance at a mountain range; maybe he’d be strutting down a street in some exotic locale while people smiled deferentially. He’d play those fantasies in his head until, at 6:35, he placed them on pause, for later.
One morning in December 2004, he slid his legs out of bed, petted his miniature dachshund, Maggie, and stumbled downstairs to make coffee; he preferred it strong and black and poured into a fine china cup. After returning to bed, he and his wife, Kay, watched Good Morning America (he liked Robin Roberts). Then he ate breakfast, showered, slipped on his Rolex, surveyed his close-cropped hair for any sign that it was getting too long and kinky, like his father’s, and wandered over to his closet. He picked out a pair of slacks and then studied his selection of polo shirts from Dillard’s and Foley’s, pondering the same choice he faced just about every day: black or gray.
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Sandy Jenkins
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James' World 2 
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