En Route

            Bridges always made Kevin squeeze the handle above the car door.  Every imperfection in the suspended black pavement made his heart skip several beats and his intestines fickle at best. With his free hand Kevin constantly tugged the touch display of his phone down, watching the wheel spin, updating the traffic report. Any longer on this stretch of woven metal death and he would have to be sick. His breakfast was meager, but enough to warrant the air sickness bag in his briefcase.

            The other men in his carpool were talkative after their twenty ounces of liquid caffeine.

            “Did you see last night’s episode of that new sitcom?”

            “Do your kids have any sports games this weekend?”

            “Happy hour?”

            For the most part the other four men occupying the car were harmless. They couldn’t strike fear into the heart of a traumatized toddler and yet their inattentiveness and aloofness about the bridge below made Kevin hate them in those eight to fifteen minutes as they crossed from New Jersey into New York.

            This time, as they passed into the lower level of the George Washington Bridge Kevin watched as the traffic crawled to a standstill. In a whirlwind of internal panic he swiped his phone downward to reload the traffic report. His face went white as whatever air he had seeped from his lungs.

            His phone read: Three car accident of the GW this morning. One lane traffic. Expect forty-five to ninety minute delays for eastbound traffic.

Road Rage

            Terry limped out of the car, finding his way to the shoulder of the road before collapsing to the rough asphalt with a loud thud. The rain grew heavier as his consciousness wavered, the sounds of the road, cars kicking up rainwater, and sirens blasted intermittently.

            “Sir, can you hear me? Mr. Sutton?”

            Terry opened his eyes finally, feeling the rush of blood to his head and pain searing down the front of his body. Almost everything was numb or hurt so much it might as well have been numb.

            “You’re in an ambulance Mr. Sutton. We’re taking you to Memorial back in town.”

            Terry tried to sit himself up but as he braced himself against the stretcher, before the EMT had the chance to ask him to lay back down, his wrists gave way. Both of them.

            “Do you know what happened to you Mr. Sutton?”

            There were needles already in his arms, his head sandwiched between puffy pads on the stretcher. He really must have been out of it when they loaded him on.

            “How bad are my injuries?” Terry coughed a bit of blood onto his cheek, finding it harder to speak than he thought it would be.

            “Nothing punctured. Lots of bruising and broken bones. There could be some internal bleeding though. I have to ask again, Mr. Sutton. Do you know what happened?”

            “Saw my Ex-Wife next to me on the freeway. Flipped her the fuck off. Must have lost control of the car.”  

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."