Some say that nighttime in the city is the worst of the day, when the nocturnal denizens emerge onto the streets to begin their shadowy activities even as the last of the daylight folks are still out and about, making their way home after a late evening meal, or a show, or a few last cocktails – the citizens and the denizens mixing on walkways not meant to be shared by these realities of opposition.  A dangerous time, a hair-trigger time; exhilarating and worrisome.  The worst of the day, some would say.

But the truth is that the early morning hours in the city are far more terrible, for it is in the very first moments of daylight that the city reveals its true self, lays bare its horrific underbelly for close examination.  The desolation of the urban soul splayed out for all to see along the broken asphalt of the streets and avenues, along the splintered concrete of the sidewalks, under the overpasses and inside the archways and down the alleys.  All pretense of camouflage or obfuscation forgotten and abandoned somewhere along the previous night’s long journey.  The vile black heart and withered teats of the Monstrocity fully exposed in the rays of the early dawn’s light; barely beating, leathery and dry.

It is during that time, just before the sluice gate of a new day springs open and spews forth a crush of pedestrians and commuters, that you catch sight of the shadow people; not quite daylight citizens and not quite nighttime denizens.  In-between people, ruined people.

Poor sick bastards – mainlining onion soup mix; stinking of bacon and horseradish.  Men and women alike; unkempt, disheveled.  Their lips and fingertips stained a tell-tale cheese doodle orange, nacho dust on their chins and corn chip shards stuck to their wrinkled shirts and blouses, glued to the soiled fabric by a sticky mixture of sour cream, ranch seasoning and drool.  The roofs of some mouths crisscrossed by the small scrapes and cuts suffered by the overeager ruffle chip gulper.

Ruffle chips… Ha!  Scoffs one of the forlorn figures as he shambles past another individual who is desperately trying to get the last few meager scraps from out of the interior corner of what is clearly an empty bag.  The loud crinkling noises created every time the man licks his finger and jabs it back into the bag for another attempt draws the attention of those nearby on the sidewalk; wild, hungry stares and smacking lips.

Ruffle chips, the shambling man exclaims again, take off the training wheels, son, and get yourself a real chip.  If you can’t handle your dip without the extra support of a ruffle you shouldn’t even be out here… and he continues to move along down the road, mumbling under his breath something about amateurs and Saratoga Chips.

Across the street two men and a woman are huddled together, kneeling in a tight-knit clump, huffing chemical cheddar from a can – ‘Got my cheese-wiz, boy?’ one of them intones and then all three of them cackle and guffaw.

A faded billboard affixed to the brick exterior of a nearby dilapidated building by members of a local outreach group promises help for anybody wanting to break the vicious cycle of addiction.

The printed copy goes on to list some of the highlights of the controversial program – a multi-step approach which eases the addict off of the hard stuff by supplying the user with a series of less and less potent alternatives.  Wheat crackers with spinach and artichoke… bread cubes and dill… rice cakes…

But at the bottom of the huge poster is a photograph of an actor paid to pretend that he’s a success story for the program’s effectiveness and he is depicted smiling triumphantly while holding a naked celery stick aloft and over his mouth somebody has drawn an enormous orange mustache.  Those on the streets have spoken, without even saying a word.