two in the morning
Art bought a stale , sterno-reeking pretzel that was crusted with inedible volumes of yellowing salt and squirted a couple bucks at a panhandler who had been pestering him in thick Jamaican patois but thanked him in adenoidal Brooklynese . By the time he boarded his connection to Logan he was joggling his knees uncontrollably in his seat , his delight barely contained . He got an undrinkable can of watery Budweiser and propped it up on his tray table alongside his inedible pretzel and arranged them in a kind of symbolic tableau of all things ESTian . He commed Fede from the guts of the tunnels that honeycombed Boston , realizing with a thrill as Fede picked up that it was two in the morning in London , at the nominal GMT +0 , while here at GMT-5 -- at the default , plus-zero time zone of his life , livelihood and lifestyle -- it was only 9PM . `` Fede ! '' Art said into the comm . `` Hey , Art ! ''