Fuel Economy

John reclined the chair in his car as far backs as it would go. Sun was beginning to rise and he had just pulled over to the side of the highway. His wheels were just past the shoulder, sinking softly into the loam below the wheels. Now that his chair was down he reached below and grabbed the bar, adjusting it as far toward the rear seat as it would go.

He pulled a jacket over his shoulders as he regarded the dewy trees leaning above his windshield. He had been driving the whole night, mile marker after mile marker on Highway 40 zipping past as the sad and depressing life stories of David Sedaris drone from his ancient speakers. The sound of his voice was muddled with the whirring of an electronic tape deck, a long cord extending from the window and connecting to his MP3 player.

Sleep, the sensation he had been avoiding, tugging at his eyelids the whole night now escaped him, sitting just past his arms reach. He could hear the sound of traffic building up, the familiar asphalt rumble of big rigs dangerously careening down the road. Their baritone horns, heralding their fearsome caffeine pill addicted drivers like Highway gods.
Just as he felt the familiar rocking sensation, like a dingy set adrift, John heard a rapping on his driver’s side window.

"Good morning, Sir. License and registration, please."