The countdown has begun. Next week the Winter Olympics begin, and I for one can’t wait till they get underway. I’m truly excited, which is sort of like the feelings I had while writing the following story. Although not sports related like the last postings, I’m totally pumped to see this posted.

Originally it was put together at this time last year, and entered into a literary contest which I didn’t win. This past week I took a little bit of time to update the prose and added a few lines here and there, deleted a few too. The finished product is what you’re about to read. Enjoy.

 

Word Count: 1258

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Traffic Jam

Daydreaming

 

So, when does imagination turn into reality? I’m thinking that’s when you envision something happening while you’re stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, then sooner or later that scenario happens, right? In that case, since I’ve been participating in this intolerable internal combustion engine standstill every day for the past year, and faithfully thinking about ways to avoid it every morning and afternoon when this standstill scenario kicks in, sooner or later reality will happen and this stops?

Realities being me not having to deal with this on a day-to-day basis like some sort of second rate Sisyphus impersonator pushing that boulder up the hill. Getting it to the summit just in time for the damn thing to tip awkwardly, bowl me over (with multiple fractures resulting of course) and roll back to the bottom. At least the fractures miraculously heal just as I’m getting ready to bust my ass by pushing the boulder back up the hill. How pleasant.

Be nice suddenly finding myself miraculously able to avoid all this.  Yeah right, then I wake up from this latest standstill-inducing stupor and discover that I’m still here. Still twiddling my thumbs, still moving at the lightning fast pace of ten feet every ten minutes, and still watching my life get sucked into that whirlpool as it disappears down the drain with an errant wedding ring.

Do I sound like I’m slightly upset? You think? Isn’t it fairly obvious my anxiety level is higher than an out of control space shuttle being piloted by a highly inebriated astronaut. Just to add a bit more anxiety, he’s also got a bit of a death wish? You damn right I’m agitated cowboy.

Calm down Pendleton, could be worse, could be agonizing since I’ve got to get to that urgent appointment within the next hour. Of course, the chances of making the assignment on time are about as probable as the sun rising in the west tomorrow morning when the fun starts up all over again.

What appointment? I’ve been showing up for that mind numbingly boring office job a half hour late on a consistent basis for the past ten months. So chronically tardy all the time the mental midget that calls himself a boss doesn’t even complain anymore. Just gives me a negative assessment on my performance review every six months.

Then when 4:45 pm rolls around, I ride that consistently broken-down elevator, walk to the parking lot, start up the ’96 Volvo with 487,000 miles on it and a twice rebuilt engine, just to have the car odyssey begin all over again in the opposite direction. I’d say I look forward to the parking lot shuffle since that means the end of the work day has arrived, but let’s be honest, shall we? The pay-the-bills session doesn’t really end till I’m walking in the door an hour later.

At least Rachel makes a decent dinner when she’s feeling ambitious. Then again that doesn’t happen very often these days, about once or twice a week if I’m lucky. Has she perfected that consistent comment of hers or what?

“It’s been a long day at the job darling. You know where the cupboard with the cereal is located. Don’t make too much of a mess when you’re preparing your entrée.”

Now that the girls are more or less out of the nest that seems to have become Rachel’s regular excuse whenever there’s a show she wants to zone out to on the idiot box instead. Which is every other night since she seems to have become totally addicted to that mesmerizing blue screen.

Wonder if Gretchen got that Broadway tech job she applied for? Probably not. Who’s the drug-addled philosopher that came up with the comment that the first-born is usually the most independent of the bunch? She’s only moved back to the relative comfort, safety, and laziness of home five times in the last eight years.

She should feel fortunate; Rachel and I keep taking her back in. On a consistent basis, no less.

One good thing about Gretchen moving back in every three or four months: she consistently cooks these amazing meals for the three of us. Wonder where she got that talent? Obviously not from her mother.

Hey, that’s an idea. Kill a few minutes by whipping out the old flip phone to call Rachel. I should probably update, but give me one good reason to?

 

“Hey babe. Looks like I’ll be late once again.”

“I’m shocked.”

Wow, don’t have any problems detecting the facetiousness in the tone of her voice. “As all these Millennials are fond of saying, “Whatever.”

“Gretchen isn’t cooking tonight anyway so you’re on your own. Her friend, Sashay just won a small sum of money from all those lottery tickets she keeps buying and they’re having a celebratory dinner.”

“How ironic, I was just thinking about the lottery.”

Rachel must’ve read my mind. “Yeah, that girl does spend a lot of money on tickets,”

“Like some sort of factory worker who spends half their salary on it every week. “The lottery is like legalized robbery poor people have bought into.” No truer words were ever spoken.”

“You think?”

“I know. Gretchen ought to take all that culinary talent of hers and turn it into a career. Then again, that might mean she’ll enroll in an over-priced culinary institute, and I’ll give you one guess as to the person who ends up paying for the entire venture.”

“Who?”

“Here’s a hint, the money isn’t coming from her sister’s boundless budget.”

“I haven’t heard from Megan lately. I guess domesticity suits her pretty well.”

“Either that or she and Roger are so enthralled with chasing rug rats around and paying their endless string of bills, that they don’t have time to call us.”

“That’s what Facebook is for.”

“Their lack of communication still isn’t going to have me signing up for that social media time suck.”

“Speaking of which,” said my significant other, “I’ll have to cut this phone call short. My show is about to start.”

What a surprise. “Ok. See you when I see you.”

 

I know how to avoid this regular traffic congestion fiasco, “Self-employment”. What a concept. Getting up when I want, taking a bathroom break whenever I feel like it, and leisurely wolfing my food down during lunch. These are just some of the high points. Sounds pretty sweet.

On the other hand, sitting there with a blank computer screen staring me in the face on a regular basis, making the entire business venture work financially, and paying the overhead bills out of my own pocket makes the solo work option sound like deciding to circumnavigate the Amazon in your trusty Paper-Mache canoe.

Sort of like that woman I picked up at that airport bar’s last call during the business trip to Orlando. Obviously, she’d been beaten with an ugly stick at an earlier stage in her life. We can definitely say all those double shots of rum and coke really kicked in for me. Amazing who you’ll go to bed with when you’re heavily inebriated and have trouble seeing two feet in front of your face.

Wow, looks like we’re moving again. Time to start up the engine so I can get home before midnight.

Typical, I get the engine cranking just in time to move fifteen feet and come to another dead stop. Hard to imagine ways for this daily fiasco to become more fun than most people have in an entire year.