the omega hours

The year was 1971. The place -- flight school at Laredo Air Force Base.

One of my evening pleasures was to walk over to the base theater dodging rattlesnakes, tortoises, and cockroaches on the way. That night's fare was The Omega Man -- one of those movies where some disaster has turned everyone on earth into a zombie except for one man. In this case, that one man was Charlton Heston.

For some reason, I can remember only a couple of scenes in the entire movie. But the one I remember best involves Heston holed up in his fortress penthouse exchanging indifferent verbal abuse with the zombies trying to storm his refuge. Out of the blue, he says: "What day is it, anyway? Monday? Huh? . . . It's Sunday. Sunday I always dress for dinner."

And he does. Even though he is the omega man, he stops thinking about his immediate peril and relies on tradition and routine to get through his day. Discipline has practical virtues.

I thought of the gussied-up Heston this afternoon because it appears I have gone in the opposite during these viral days. My schedule has shifted on its axis.

In The Before Times, I would try to be in bed at midnight, up at 6, breakfast at 8, dinner at 2, and supper at 6 or 7. For some reason that has now shifted to bed at 4, up at 9, breakfast at 11, dinner at 4, and supper at 10 or 11.

Well, not "for some reason." The reason is obvious. Without any external demands on my time, I am shifting back to my natural circadian rhythm. Though I do not hang out with bats or wolves, I am a child of the night. Everything I do, I do better after the clock shifts past midnight.

Yesterday, I mentioned a salad I had made atop pita bread (are you going to eat that?). Today I decided to put the pita to work in its natural job -- as the wrapping for a gyros. I had all of the ingredients but one. The lamb. Which, of course, is exactly the same thing as saying I am going to write a symphony, but I have no musical talent.

Fortunately, Mexico is the land of substitutions, and I was able to mock up some meat with my food processor that almost convinced me I could hear the faint echos of baaaaahhhs. (Lambs are not silent in this house.) It was good enough that, for a moment, I thought I was back in Patras tasting my first gyros.

The question now is, when the gun goes off letting people out of their houses here (18 May still looks like a possible date for our county), will I revert to my old hours? I seldom share meals with others, with the exception of supper. And summer is always an easy time to avoid a lot of social contact. So, I doubt change is in the air.

At the end of the movie, Heston dies for the sins of mankind complete with a military crown of thorns. I suspect the end of my isolation will be far more Elliot -- with a whimper and not a bang.

But even that comparison is comforting.