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.
