Red Asphalt
written by Scott Cherney
Book Excerpt
I was trapped.
Given the entire nature of the morning thus far, there was no way around the realization that the daily commute would just flat out suck three ways to Christmas.
Voila! Right again. I was literally smack dab in the middle of traffic, dead center lane and crawling at the speed of slugs. No way out to the left. No way out to the right. The only thing faster than my fellow traffic prisoners and me was TIME.
Time. My archenemy, staring at me with blood red LED eyes from his dashboard perch, mocked me as usual.
“7:54,’ the clock sneered. “Six minutes to go, Chico. It’s almost eight o’clock…again. Eight. Ocho. I say ocho. You say oucho when you’re late for work again, my friend.”
I popped Time in the face with the heel of my palm. I hate Time. Especially when he’s right.
Sitting in a completely dead stop on the freeway is a crime against nature. In a perfect world, it should happen only once in a generation, but, realistically, annually would be a compromise I could live with. But daily…? Every singlestupid day of every single stupid week is just…painful. Agony on an endless loop. This routine congestion of vehicles falls under the category of UNACCEPTABLE. I just don’t buy it. It just doesn’t wash. What could be the hold-up? Just move it along. Oh, it can move at a slower pace as long we were continuing to be MOBILE. The bottom line is justfucking MOVE.
Surrounding me in this jam were the regular cast of idiots, the same stereotypes that I had grown weary of seeing way before this day began. Sure, different actors were cast in these roles from day to day, but the characters remained the same. There’s the perky little receptionist who keeps checking her gooped up eyes in the mirror while bobbing her head to some insipid Top 40 ditty from the wacky Breakfast Buffet Crew on 94.5 FM-The Bomb! Then there’s the bald alt boy with a goatee, tattoos, piercing and a black t-shirt with the logo of some obscure band like Phlegmbot or Testicle Maneuvers. Now a soccer mom in her mini van pulls up. She turns all the way around in her seat to discipline her nasty brood that she probably squeezed out every year for the past five, one at a time of course. Oh, and my favorite character type in all the world sat directly to my right-the yuppie from Hades in shirt, tie and SUV, yakking away on his cell phone while running his manicured fingers through his mousse laden hair and sipping on a skinny latte, half-caf, of course.
Phones. The bane of my existence. Whether they be cell, pay or just home, they are the Devil’s Communicators. And cell phones…. what is this obsession with constant communication all of a sudden? Do we really have that much to say? What is there to talk about that you can’t say in person? Nothing. Not now. Not ever. They are just a distraction, a diversion from LIFE.
Time decided to chime in.
“Oh my goodness…it’s 7:55. Five minutes! Five minutes to unemployment! You know that if you ever get out of this stinking mess, you’ll still be late! Five minutes! Cinco de Minuto!”
I couldn’t be late again. As much as I hated that soul-sucking job, I was headed into the Danger Zone as far as tardiness was concerned. That’s a sin, you know. Tardiness. Even if you were an honest to goodness bonafide saint here on Earth in your entire life, you would not be able to enter the kingdom of Heaven if you were had the stigma of tardiness on your permanent record. You may not go to Hell, but Purgatory is filled with people who just couldn’t make it anywhere on time.
And I was certainly sitting in the foyer of Purgatory right then and there. Not a creature was stirring, not even a Hyundai. To add to my misery, the ditzy receptionist had the top of her VW Beetle down so that all could enjoy the crazy, kooky sounds of the wacky Breakfast Buffet radio show.
“It’s a good lookin’ Thursday, wouldn’t you say so, Frank?”
“That it is, Beans. We got traffic and weather together at the top of the hour.”
“That’s right, Frank and after that, more music and the semi-finals of this year’s annual Breakfast Buffet Fart Contest.”
“And you, my friend, could be in the Hall of Fame.”
“That’s right. They don’t call me Beans for nothin’!”
“We’ll be right back. It’s Frank and Beans on the Breakfast Buffet on 94.5…The Bomb! It’s 7:57.”
That was enough for me to roll my window up on the white Ford Escort station wagon that Healthfirst, the company I worked for, had provided for me to go to and fro, over hill and down dale while fulfilling my nefarious duties as a courier for this clinical laboratory. I flipped on my own radio, channel surfing impatiently as was my normal modus operandi.
Click.
“The Dow Jones Industrial average…”
Click.
“Ba-widdy-ba-di-bang-di-bang…”
Click.
“Metro police responded to a 911 call…”
Click.
“Zero down and zero payments for a whole year…”
Click.
“I’m Frank…”
Click.
“Illegal aliens…”
Click.
“Gridlock in Congress…”
Click.
“What would Jesus do…”
Click.
“Ba-widdy-ba-di-bang…”
Click.
Shut up
Shut up
Shut up
Click.
With the window closed, the car seemed smaller and was closing in as each moment passed. Perspiration dotted my forehead. My stomach whirled like a cheap carnival ride, forcing my rage up, up into my throat. I had to open my mouth or I would surely explode. I had to SCREAM….
But hold!
A van pulling slightly ahead in the next lane revealed an exit I’d never spotted before just ahead on the right. Suddenly, the entire parking lot of cars began to inch forward just a teensy bit, but it was more than we had moved for several minutes. But here I was, stuck in the middle and I had to get over in order to take advantage of this escape route. I flipped on my turn signal and made my move. This had to work, right?
What could possibly prevent…?
An obstacle.
Copyright 2007 by Scott Cherney
RED ASPHALT NOW AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK AND KINDLE AT AMAZON
written by Scott Cherney
Book Excerpt
I was trapped.
Given the entire nature of the morning thus far, there was no way around the realization that the daily commute would just flat out suck three ways to Christmas.
Voila! Right again. I was literally smack dab in the middle of traffic, dead center lane and crawling at the speed of slugs. No way out to the left. No way out to the right. The only thing faster than my fellow traffic prisoners and me was TIME.
Time. My archenemy, staring at me with blood red LED eyes from his dashboard perch, mocked me as usual.
“7:54,’ the clock sneered. “Six minutes to go, Chico. It’s almost eight o’clock…again. Eight. Ocho. I say ocho. You say oucho when you’re late for work again, my friend.”
I popped Time in the face with the heel of my palm. I hate Time. Especially when he’s right.
Sitting in a completely dead stop on the freeway is a crime against nature. In a perfect world, it should happen only once in a generation, but, realistically, annually would be a compromise I could live with. But daily…? Every singlestupid day of every single stupid week is just…painful. Agony on an endless loop. This routine congestion of vehicles falls under the category of UNACCEPTABLE. I just don’t buy it. It just doesn’t wash. What could be the hold-up? Just move it along. Oh, it can move at a slower pace as long we were continuing to be MOBILE. The bottom line is justfucking MOVE.
Surrounding me in this jam were the regular cast of idiots, the same stereotypes that I had grown weary of seeing way before this day began. Sure, different actors were cast in these roles from day to day, but the characters remained the same. There’s the perky little receptionist who keeps checking her gooped up eyes in the mirror while bobbing her head to some insipid Top 40 ditty from the wacky Breakfast Buffet Crew on 94.5 FM-The Bomb! Then there’s the bald alt boy with a goatee, tattoos, piercing and a black t-shirt with the logo of some obscure band like Phlegmbot or Testicle Maneuvers. Now a soccer mom in her mini van pulls up. She turns all the way around in her seat to discipline her nasty brood that she probably squeezed out every year for the past five, one at a time of course. Oh, and my favorite character type in all the world sat directly to my right-the yuppie from Hades in shirt, tie and SUV, yakking away on his cell phone while running his manicured fingers through his mousse laden hair and sipping on a skinny latte, half-caf, of course.
Phones. The bane of my existence. Whether they be cell, pay or just home, they are the Devil’s Communicators. And cell phones…. what is this obsession with constant communication all of a sudden? Do we really have that much to say? What is there to talk about that you can’t say in person? Nothing. Not now. Not ever. They are just a distraction, a diversion from LIFE.
Time decided to chime in.
“Oh my goodness…it’s 7:55. Five minutes! Five minutes to unemployment! You know that if you ever get out of this stinking mess, you’ll still be late! Five minutes! Cinco de Minuto!”
I couldn’t be late again. As much as I hated that soul-sucking job, I was headed into the Danger Zone as far as tardiness was concerned. That’s a sin, you know. Tardiness. Even if you were an honest to goodness bonafide saint here on Earth in your entire life, you would not be able to enter the kingdom of Heaven if you were had the stigma of tardiness on your permanent record. You may not go to Hell, but Purgatory is filled with people who just couldn’t make it anywhere on time.
And I was certainly sitting in the foyer of Purgatory right then and there. Not a creature was stirring, not even a Hyundai. To add to my misery, the ditzy receptionist had the top of her VW Beetle down so that all could enjoy the crazy, kooky sounds of the wacky Breakfast Buffet radio show.
“It’s a good lookin’ Thursday, wouldn’t you say so, Frank?”
“That it is, Beans. We got traffic and weather together at the top of the hour.”
“That’s right, Frank and after that, more music and the semi-finals of this year’s annual Breakfast Buffet Fart Contest.”
“And you, my friend, could be in the Hall of Fame.”
“That’s right. They don’t call me Beans for nothin’!”
“We’ll be right back. It’s Frank and Beans on the Breakfast Buffet on 94.5…The Bomb! It’s 7:57.”
That was enough for me to roll my window up on the white Ford Escort station wagon that Healthfirst, the company I worked for, had provided for me to go to and fro, over hill and down dale while fulfilling my nefarious duties as a courier for this clinical laboratory. I flipped on my own radio, channel surfing impatiently as was my normal modus operandi.
Click.
“The Dow Jones Industrial average…”
Click.
“Ba-widdy-ba-di-bang-di-bang…”
Click.
“Metro police responded to a 911 call…”
Click.
“Zero down and zero payments for a whole year…”
Click.
“I’m Frank…”
Click.
“Illegal aliens…”
Click.
“Gridlock in Congress…”
Click.
“What would Jesus do…”
Click.
“Ba-widdy-ba-di-bang…”
Click.
Shut up
Shut up
Shut up
Click.
With the window closed, the car seemed smaller and was closing in as each moment passed. Perspiration dotted my forehead. My stomach whirled like a cheap carnival ride, forcing my rage up, up into my throat. I had to open my mouth or I would surely explode. I had to SCREAM….
But hold!
A van pulling slightly ahead in the next lane revealed an exit I’d never spotted before just ahead on the right. Suddenly, the entire parking lot of cars began to inch forward just a teensy bit, but it was more than we had moved for several minutes. But here I was, stuck in the middle and I had to get over in order to take advantage of this escape route. I flipped on my turn signal and made my move. This had to work, right?
What could possibly prevent…?
An obstacle.
Copyright 2007 by Scott Cherney
RED ASPHALT NOW AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK AND KINDLE AT AMAZON