5:40 a.m.

"Good morning," says the bartender. "What'll you have?"

You stammer and find yourself unprepared for this question despite your relationship with alcohol that spans more than 20 years. The bartender levels his gaze at you.

"A Bud Light," you say finally. "And an ice water back."

"And a what?" he asks.

"A glass of ice water," you repeat meekly.

A couple sips shots and Coronas on your left. They are both delicate and fair and seem to be enjoying the last drinks of a long night. Two 50-something regular guys, neighborhood guys, bar guys, sit on your right, drinking what appear to be the first beers of a long day. Dean Martin sings "Mambo Italiano" from the jukebox, and the volume precludes polite conversation. Everyone is smoking but you.

When you sit at the bar, you are approximately the same height as the other patrons, the same height as your brother was when he sat with shaking hands at his 6 a.m. bar before he lost his battle with life and alcohol at age 33. The bartender sets a frosty bottle in front of you. You take a sip and stifle a grimace.

"The only thing that kept the kid above water?" says one of the bar guys. "He was smart. Made money the old fashion way: busting heads and killing people. I liked guys like him. Now they're all punks." The darkness outside is a lie.

"How much for a shot of Jack?" asks the young man on your left. The girl beside him sways languidly to Bob Seger's "Like a Rock." Her eyes are narrow slits.

"A shot of Jack is $3.50," replies the bartender.

"How much for two shots?"

"That'd run you $7."

A similar conversation regarding Black Velvet and Crown Royal ($2.25 and $3.50 per shot respectively) ensues. Black Velvet it is. The bartender executes the transaction and counts out the young man's change in front of him.

"Got any coffee?" you ask.

"No coffee," says the bartender. "Did you want coffee?"

"No, no," you say too quickly. "The beer's fine."

6:40 a.m.

Time moves like a glacier. You peer out at Lorain Avenue, which is Out There, different than In Here, where the scene is directed by David Lynch and scored by Martin Scorsese. Will the sun ever come up? What if it does?

Normalcy trickles in by way of third-shift workers in flannel shirts from area machine shops and factories, in aqua scrubs from a local hospital. Each patron is greeted with an even "good morning," and sent off with a sincere "be careful" from the bartender.

"Had to clean up the spill," says one man as he kneads the bridge of his nose. And you know he is not talking about spilt milk.

The after-work banter continues. "Can't get fucked up. Gotta work tonight."

The bar guys discuss having another. "Hey, you want a whiskey and water?"

"Noooo, too early. I can't drink this early. Just give me another beer."

The sweet-faced young woman turns to you and laments, "I can't train him to dance." Her date returns to the bar and they collect their lighters and cigarettes, then fall out into the velvet of dawn.

Another customer blows in and sits next to you. He tells the bartender that he looks like the guy from Everybody Loves Raymond. "Not Raymond," he says, "but the brother. You look like the crazy-ass brother."

The bartender contends that he looks like Adam from Bonanza.

The new customer orders a double Grey Goose, light cranberry, no ice, no straw. When it arrives, he expresses dissatisfaction at its strength. The bartender shows him a mechanical device that, he patiently explains, must be attached to the bottle in order to pour anything and allows him to pour an exact shot.

The customer grumbles. The bartender places a phone call, which distresses the new customer. "Aw shit," he says, "you calling my boss?"

The bartender snaps his phone shut and says with measured gentleness, "I don't even know you."

"This place is weird," says the customer. "You're weird," he says to you.

"That's because I'm a witch," you say.

"You are a witch," says the customer. "You look like Sabrina the teenage witch, but you're not as cute." He slams his empty glass on the bar and leaves.

"Be careful," bids the bartender.

7:45 a.m.

Three women in scrubs order a round of light beer and settle into the business of giggling and smoking and welcoming the weekend. Dean Martin takes back the jukebox. The bar guys muse on culture.

"Married Ava Gardner. Nearly cost him his career."

"There was the Dean Martin Show. They had the Golddiggers. They were good."

"They were good."

"Those guys were cocky back then."

A curly-haired woman checks in with the three women in scrubs. They all laugh, but she does not join them. She sits at the end of the bar, orders a neat shot of Black Velvet with a Coke back. You watch the bartender fill the shot glass.

"Is that a single?" you ask. It is. You conclude the mechanical device isn't cheating anyone despite the previous customer's complaint.

8 a.m.

Shift change. The bartender gives way to a pretty woman in a pink sweater. She leaves a waft of sweet perfume in her wake as she travels up and down the bar.

You are determined to outlast the two bar guys who have fascinated you since you walked in.

"If I needed $2,000 you'd give it to me," says one.

"What do I got? I got nothing," answers the other. "You want my TV?"

"You never flounder with your money. That's what I like about you." You try to smile in their direction, but their conversation is closed. With this realization comes a nameless exhaustion. It wraps around you. You can barely keep your eyes open.

You blink at the clock and realize you've been here for over two and a half hours. But you feel like you just walked in, like it has been daylight forever. The previous darkness and slowness was an illusion. Or is this? Time is stretched and warped, droopy and twisted.

Sleep. Home. You give into the weight of these desires. You walk by the bar guys. "This guy comes out and he was drunker than hell. It was Jimmy the Greek. You remember that?" You walk by your brother's ghost, hunkered over his morning vodka. You walk out the door and spill out over the rest of the world.

Nolan's bar, 14206 Lorain Ave., is open at 5:30 a.m. every day of the year.

eobnow@yahoo.com; www.erinobrien.us