magnifico
Commute 5280 was going badly. Apart from the usual Monday morning traffic, bad weather, poor visibility and an announcement on the radio of an incident ahead causing delays, I’d had a run-in with an obnoxious driver, one that rattled me so much I’d been forced to pull over to catch my breath, at a badly maintained service station that nevertheless offered an oasis of calm.
It was still pre 8-am when I pushed my way into the shop, leaving the rain for the brightly lit, muzak-droning interior, one I was far too familiar with after years and years of almost weekly drop-ins.
It wasn’t one of the big franchise stations but it was the only one along this stretch of motorway, and since I was prone to growing sleepy at the wheel, even this early in the morning (bad sleep habits, staying awake late on my phone, swiping through Tinder halfheartedly) it was one I’d come to know as well as my car.
The ATM in the corner that only gave fiftys. The cracked floor tiles, water-stained ceiling panels, spreading patch of mould by the door to the toilet. The life-saving, self-service coffee dock which against all odds gave good coffee, which is what I needed now to perk me up, so I made my way to it and got in line behind a woman in a wet parka, who’d placed a cup under the dispenser and was readying her bankcard to pay.
As I waited, I found myself wondering how many times I'd popped in here. Out of 5280 commutes, 2640 northbound, I’d probably stopped at this station at least twice a week on my way from point A to point B, ‘A’ being home, ‘B’ being my place of work, the same place of work I’d been commuting to and from for eleven years. Eleven years, 48 working weeks per year, very few days missed due to illness or family emergencies, 5280 commutes, there and back, give or take, made at least 1000 visits to this station.
Which was depressing. The same road, the same congestion, the same stops along the way to do a job I had long since grown bored of.
Christ, I needed a change.
With the kids grown, the divorce settled, the house paid for, freedom to choose something new now rested before me, I just hadn’t tried to seek it out. Too set in my ways, too stuck in routine, too afraid of changing direction.
But I had to, or one of these days I’d die on this mind-numbing commute, leaving miles of regret in my wake. This morning had made that crystal clear.
I didn’t want to dwell on it, because that would remind me of how blunt my sparkwheel had become over the years and how it could no longer ignite any flame. I just wanted coffee, to sit for a while and calm my mind, but the woman in the parka was having difficulty, cursing at the machine while tap-tap-tapping her card against the contactless sensor, getting nothing back in return.
But not today.
In the middle of singing “I see a little silhouette of a man” along with Freddie, I happened to look out my window and found myself staring through the drizzling rain at a blonde controlling a Toyota in the fast lane, mouthing the words “Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the Fandango!” back at me.
She laughed, probably at how quickly I clammed up, but continued singing along to the song, on my radio and hers. “Thunderbolts and Lightning, very, very frightening me!” Her sense of fun inspired me to jump back in, joining Queen–and her–for a spirited shout-out to Galileo.
For a few fun seconds I mostly held her gaze, whilst maintaining awareness of the road. I felt my heart lift and something like butterflies in my stomach, enjoying this weird, singalong moment with the stranger in the Corolla beside me.
And then, just like that, it was over, her attention diverted to her rearview mirror and the shiny, black Tesla that raced up behind her, flashing its lights as it urged her to get out of its way.
My side mirror showed me the moustachioed driver in bold, red shirt and mirrored sunglasses, who was clearly shouting obscenities as he leaned over the wheel. An impatient asshole, he then commenced pounding his horn, making the Tesla shriek when the flashing of its headlights failed to make the Toyota disappear. say something but shutting it again when the toilet door opened and out came a man in red shirt, blue jeans, polished shoes, trench coat and moustache.
She saw him at the same time as me and sniggered, looking at me with a twinkle in her eyes, singing:
“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?”
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