Awake at Three: My Life Between Trash and Tomorrow

The alarm on my phone shatters the darkness at 3:00 AM. I slap it silent, heart pounding, and stare at the cracked ceiling above my bed. The apartment smells faintly of engine oil and onions—remnants of Dad’s late shift and Mom’s meal prep for tomorrow. I swing my legs over the side, ignoring the ache in my back, and listen for any sound that might wake my little brother, Tyler. He needs his sleep more than I do. I tiptoe past his bed, careful not to jostle the loose floorboard, and crouch by my desk—a battered fold-out table wedged next to the window.

There’s a physics textbook open, pages warped from last night’s coffee spill. I rub my eyes, willing myself to focus. One hour. That’s all I have before I need to leave for work. I scribble solutions to practice problems, the numbers blurring sometimes, my mind drifting to thoughts of MIT, of blueprints and bridges, of a life where I don’t have to count the quarters in my pocket to see if I can afford lunch.

The city outside is still asleep, but I’m already racing against time.

“Wes, you up?”

Mom’s whisper floats in from the kitchen. Her hand is gentle on my shoulder, but her eyes are tired. The lines on her face are deeper than they were a year ago, before Dad’s overtime dried up and my scholarship barely covered tuition. She presses a thermos into my hand—a little coffee, a lot of milk, and just enough sugar. “You be careful out there. They said it’s icy by the river.”

“I will, Mom,” I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel. I grab my work boots, kiss the top of her head, and slip out the door, careful not to wake Tyler.

I meet Jamal at the corner of 6th and Maple. He’s been doing this job longer, knows which alleys have the worst rats and which shopkeepers leave out bagels for us. We don’t talk much at first—just the clang of bins, the crunch of salt underfoot, the hiss of the garbage truck’s hydraulics. The city wakes up around us: headlights slicing through the dawn, delivery trucks rumbling by, a dog barking at the end of its leash.

“Yo, Wes. You hear from State yet?” Jamal asks, wiping sweat from his brow even though it’s freezing.

I shake my head. “Not yet. Maybe this week.”

“You get outta here, man, don’t look back. Don’t let this place hold you.”

Jamal used to want to be a teacher. Now he just wants enough for rent and his kid’s inhaler.

By 7:30, my back is screaming. We finish the route near the college, where students rush past us, earbuds in, faces glowing with the promise of futures I can only imagine. I duck my head, embarrassed by my uniform, aware of the stink clinging to my skin. But then I remember—I’m one of them now, too, even if I have to change in the locker room and hustle to class with garbage juice on my jeans.

After work, I catch the early bus to campus. My hands shake as I text Mom: “Done. Heading to class. Love you.” She doesn’t reply—she’s already at her cleaning job. I wolf down half a stale bagel, wipe my hands on my jacket, and brace myself for the day’s lectures. I sit in the back, afraid someone will notice the calluses on my palms, the way I sometimes nod off mid-sentence. But Professor Evans pauses by my desk.

“Weston, stay after?”

My heart thuds. Did I mess up the last assignment? I stay as the room empties, sweat prickling under my collar.

“I read your project proposal,” she says. “It’s…exceptional. But you’re falling behind on homework. Everything okay?”

I want to tell her the truth—that every minute of my day is scheduled, that sometimes I have to choose between sleep and studying, that my family needs me to work. But I just say, “I’m trying. I’ll do better.”

She studies me for a moment, then nods. “I know you will. Let me know if you need help. That’s what we’re here for.”

I walk out lighter, but the weight returns as soon as I get home. Dad’s sitting at the table, finishing a beer, eyes red from another rejection letter. Tyler’s glued to his homework. Mom is slicing coupons with the TV on low. I want to tell them about Professor Evans, about the hope I felt, but I can’t—not when the fridge is almost empty and the rent is due.

At dinner, Dad slams his fist down. “Why are you killing yourself for some fancy degree? It’s not gonna change nothing. Look at me. I worked hard, and what do I have?”

I flinch. “I can’t just give up, Dad. I have to try.”

He shakes his head. “Dreams don’t pay the bills.”

Mom’s voice is soft but fierce. “Let him be, Richard. He’s doing this for us.”

Tyler looks up. “Will you really be an engineer someday, Wes?”

I force a smile. “Yeah, Ty. I will. For you.”

Some nights, I lie awake listening to Dad’s snores and Mom’s quiet prayers, staring out the window at the blinking red lights on the skyline. I wonder if Jamal is right—if I’ll ever make it out, or if the city will swallow me like it did so many others. But every morning, I get up at three, lace my boots, and tell myself that one day, all this will mean something.

Sometimes I ask myself: How many mornings does it take to change a life? And if I keep getting up, no matter how tired I am, will I ever stop feeling like I’m dragging the whole city’s garbage behind me?