Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Late for Work

I swerved through traffic my radio blasting Marilyn Manson as the person in the car I just ripped past gave me the finger.  I couldn't be late, not again.  My boss had made that clear.  If I was late again I would be out on the street without a job.

I pressed down on the accelerator when I came to a stretch of a clearing in the left lane.  Five more minutes down the highway and I would make it.  I could do it in three if I really pushed it.  Hopefully I wouldn't run into any cops, or get cut off by some shlub or anything.

Is the job really worth getting a speeding ticket or getting into an accident, though?  Surely I need a job, but at what cost?  What the hell was I even doing working there?  A couple generations ago, a person with an English degree probably would not have had to settle indefinitely for a job at a restaurant.  An education used to mean something back then -- even one in the humanities.  What happened?

I thought about it, and the more I did, subconsciously, the slower I went.  Before I realized it, I was holding up traffic.  The first opportunity I had I got over in the slow lane behind a semi.  If I was late, I would be late, whatever happened, I would let fate decide.

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