Twenty Minutes with No Traffic

Jeremiah Wellman, or Jerry, loosened his tie and instantly felt better. Sweet Jesus, was the AC broken in this wretched office? Like Satan’s flaming arms had him in a headlock. Jerry glanced at the thermometer: 68 degrees.

He snatched his keys, grabbed his briefcase, and fled the building. The cute receptionist wished him a nice weekend on the way out, and he muttered ‘yeah’ before emerging in the fading light. His shirt stuck wetly to his back, and his feet ached as he descended the stairs. Why, after six years, was he still parking way out near the guardhouse? Crossing the parking lot was like the Bataan Death March twice a day, five days a week.

When he finally arrived at his beige van, Jerry leaned against it for a moment, catching his breath. He tossed his briefcase in the back seat, atop a manila folder whose contents he’d rather not think about. Then he peeled off his jacket, dropped it next to the briefcase, and settled into the driver’s seat.

The whole van was a hotbox. The vinyl seats seemed to burn through his pants and sweat immediately gathered behind his knees. Did summer ever end in this miserable state? He’d quit smoking almost a year earlier, so his vehicle no longer stunk of smoke, but it still had a stale, ashy aroma that lingered in the upholstery no matter what Jerry ate, drank, or expelled.

He turned the key and the engine roared to life. Reliable as ever. As he waited for the cool air to turn on, he opened the glove box and retrieved a Little Debbie chocolate cake. He disappeared the treat in two bites before shoving the wrapper in his pocket.

Licking his fingers clean, he reached for the steering wheel. It was blazingly hot. Every damn day, he thought. He shifted his grip, searching for a spot that didn’t feel like a stove burner.

He tapped his GPS and opened the map. The blue line appeared, winding towards home.

20 minutes.

Plenty of time to catch his wife, Dana. Something weird was going on. He knew it, just like he knew it was partially his fault. Too much work. Too little love.

He suspected it was the man with a neon blue Mustang. He’d seen that car roll past their house repeatedly and so had his neighbors. When Jerry got home, he’d deal with them.

He backed his van out of the parking spot, waving his hand in front of its dusty vents. Still warm air.

BEEEEP!

A horn blast jolted his attention to his rearview mirror.

Aiden Realms.

The twenty-something punk who flirted with every girl in the office, coveted Jerry’s position, and clearly had no driving manners. Jerry stuck his arm out the window and flipped Aiden the bird.

The boy responded with a few more honks.

Laughing, Jerry put the van in drive and left Aiden in his rearview. He switched on a rock station. An unfamiliar song with a pleasant drumbeat and lugubrious guitar filled the van.

His cell phone beeped. It was a text:

DANA: Where are you?

He checked the clock.

“Jesus, Dana,” he said.

Gritting his teeth, he turned onto Braunwald Avenue. A Charley horse flared in his left hammy, and he tried to lean over to release the pain, but his steering wheel allowed only the smallest of movements. Grunting, he gunned it, pulling onto Fuster Freeway. The road seemed to shimmer ahead of him.

Liberating some M&Ms from his console, he cruised along and glanced at his GPS.

22 minutes.

By everything holy, did no one know how to drive anymore? He imagined some half-blind grandma had swerved into oncoming traffic, taking out a family of four and congesting traffic all the way to downtown. He popped a final chocolatey orb into his mouth.

A skinny dog darted in front of his van.

He slammed the brakes.

His tires screeched. The cars behind him followed suit. The van’s bumper stopped just a few feet from the canine. The ugly mutt stared at him for a moment — how could such a dumb creature survive on the streets? — before disappearing into some bushes. He caught his breath, trying to relax. The van felt like a sauna.

His phone chimed. It was his boss.

MELVIN: Did you send those numbers over to Ashley? She’s expecting them tonight.

Damn it. He’d completely forgotten about that finance report.

He debated returning to the office. Nah – Ashley could go to hell. If she had to wait until Monday for the numbers, did it really matter? Would he, Jeremiah Wellman, big Jerry, employee of the year four years ago, get fired?

Not a chance.

Wiping chocolatey fingers on his pants, he turned his attention to the road. The upcoming left lane was closed. As his van inched forward, he saw the reason for the closure. A young couple, a sports car, and a truck that had been rear-ended.

It was just a fender-bender, and for some reason, that annoyed him even more. If he had to be inconvenienced, he wanted to see a totaled car, blood, guts, and drama.

The GPS said 17 minutes.

Both lanes now open, he stomped on the gas. His AC still hadn’t activated! Did he need to take the damn van in for repairs again? It was always something. He’d call a mechanic later. Fingers tingling, he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

He reached toward the back seat, feeling for a Bugles bag he’d left there. His fingers brushed against the manila folder and he grimaced. If Michael didn’t pay for that girl’s injuries, the judge said he was going to…Eureka! His hand closed around the half-empty bag of salty goodness.

Making short work of the chips, which briefly overpowered the van’s musk, he wished he’d remembered to bring some water.

Another text:

MELVIN: Call me, please.

He flung the phone onto the passenger seat, and it fell off the side. Great. Oh well. Forget Melvin. It was after 4 p.m. on a Friday. Why couldn’t the man just leave him alone?

GPS: 12 minutes.

Jerry mashed a few buttons on the radio, hoping for better tunes.

BEEEEP!

A horn screeched. A gigantic delivery truck suddenly filled his rearview. It was dangerously close. Was he the last person alive with etiquette or patience anymore? He waved his hand at the driver and clicked on his turn-signal.

As he tried to change lanes, the delivery driver copied the move, nearly ramming him. He tried to go back left, but the truck mirrored his van’s movements again.

Screw it all to hell.

He slowed the van down to a crawl.

In the rearview, the delivery man went ballistic. He leaned on his horn like it was the Seven Trumpets of Revelation. He watched the fool with smug satisfaction: red-faced, screaming, his blood pressure probably off the charts.

The driver jerked his truck around Jerry and flashed an unkind hand gesture before speeding out of sight. What is this, he thought, high school?

He checked the GPS: 6 minutes.

He slowed down and turned into his neighborhood. His phone dinged again. Reaching over the passenger seat, he groped for the stupid device. When he finally got hold of it, he righted himself quickly, veering to avoid a familiar pothole.

It was his son.

MICHAEL: Have you called Detective Lewis yet?

Damn it, Michael. What had he been thinking with that girl? He closed his eyes for half a second. He wasn’t angry anymore – he was a little scared. Could he fix this? Isn’t that what a good father did?

He drove past idyllic middle-class houses and well-manicured lawns. One of his neighbors was washing his SUV, and another was chatting with the mailman. A few boys were shooting at a pop-up basketball hoop.

He tried to slow his breathing. His jaw hurt – he really needed to stop grinding his teeth.

The GPS said 2 minutes.

As he pulled onto his street, he saw a neon-blue Mustang parked in front of his house.

The same one.

He hit the brakes just before his van demolished the garage door.

Pouring sweat, he hauled himself out of the van. His breath caught in his throat, and his chest felt tight. Heartburn, probably. The Bugles hadn’t helped. He considered retrieving the manila folder before going inside, then decided against it. If his boy was going to prison, so be it. They could discuss it later.

On wobbly legs, he lumbered towards the door. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips as he turned the key. His phone buzzed again.

MELVIN: Jerry, don’t go home. You’re not done yet.

The cool air of his house was a welcome feeling. Franz, his spoiled dog, was lazing beside the couch. Jerry could hear voices in the kitchen. The usual smell of coffee wafted through the living room. With heavy steps, he walked to the kitchen’s entrance.

Dana, Michael, and a man he didn’t know were at the table. They were all watching him. The man wore a dark suit and had a leather portfolio resting beside him.

The Mustang.

The manila folder.

Michael’s accident.

Insurance.

He took one step into the kitchen, and a stabbing pain flared in his chest. His stomach felt strangely hollow, like a steep drop on a rollercoaster. His mouth was bone dry and everything was spinning. He steadied himself against the counter and his legs trembled. Buckets of sweat poured off him.

He took another step towards his family.

Pain arced across his ribs, deep inside, and one knee slammed to the tiles. He caught himself with both hands, jamming his wrists. He tried to swallow but could only taste acid. Looking up, he saw that Dana was strangely still, as though unsure of whether to help him.

“Jeremiah, I…” she began.

He wheezed, and his hands slipped on the wet floor. His weight cracked more tiles as he collapsed, and he rolled over, jostling the refrigerator. He tried to speak, but no words came forth. All he could hear was his own breathing.

Their faces filled his vision. Dana, wearing a mask of concern and pity. Michael, looking both afraid and somehow relieved. The insurance investigator watched him. He couldn’t read his expression. 

Darkness speckled their faces, then swallowed them. Consciousness faded.

Jerry's phone chirped in his pocket.

It was his GPS:

“You have arrived at your destination.”

The End