She was late. Every minute turned by the numbers of the dashboard clock attracted her eye, and her frustration growing as time silently moved forward. She accelerated well past the speed limit in an effort to make up lost minutes. It annoyed her to know that, despite the dominance she exerted upon her own small world, time and the electric company remained beyond her influence. Last night something--she suspected a power surge--caused her alarm clock to reset. Luckily, her internal clock was somewhat finely tuned, and she awoke only forty-five minutes late. She turned the coffee maker on and rushed to ready herself while ignoring a phone call from the office. Of all days to be late, why today? she asked herself as she prepared to leave. She couldn’t be late--this morning was her presentation to the German investors. An enormous deal, it had the potential to place her among the company’s elite.
Her luxury sedan sped along the streets toward downtown skyscrapers. She breathed deeply between gulps of coffee while the clock reminded her that all self-assurance this morning was hollow. She would certainly miss her appointment with Mr. Ward to review the plan for the investor’s meeting, but she would make it in time for the Germans.
She turned onto a long street that ran all the way to the office and the car zoomed along, whizzing by trees and streetlights. Orange construction signs appeared, and she let out a groan of frustration at the prospect of slowed traffic. She watched orange pylons materialize and move toward the center of the road from the right. More cones then appeared, merging the far left lane to the middle, leaving only the center lane open to traffic.
Frustration melted into mild astonishment. Peering ahead, she spotted no cars on the road. Ordinarily this street was crammed with angry morning commuters. So, they must have heard about the construction and taken different roads, she thought, thankful that road construction helped her for once.
She saw construction equipment of all shapes and sizes in the blocked off lanes. Oddly, no men worked on or around them. Indeed, all machinery lacked activity. The site deserted, she ignored the posted orange signs requesting drivers slow down for safety.
The road curved with increased sharpness to the right. Halfway through the turn, a light blue car appeared in the distance, driving slowly. She cursed as the distance between them rapidly closed. The car was old, blue paint dulled by time, shine and attraction a distant memory. The emblem on the trunk was worn and unrecognizable, though it was clearly an American car of some kind. The short, puffy, curly hair of an old woman was outlined in the driver’s seat. An annoyingly bright bumper sticker reading Happiness is Grandkids rested beneath one taillight. Great, now I have to wait behind grandma. The old woman annoyingly obeyed all warning signs as she drove, adjusting her speed to meet the prescribed limit.
She felt almost unable to bear the weight of the situation. This meeting represented all her life had been building to since college, and culminated years of hard work; the product of countless nights spent slaving over reports, of boyfriends brushed aside for her goals and of holidays celebrated in the office. Her life had been presented as a sacrificial lamb for the company, and this would be her only chance. There were countless junior executives like her, salivating for this sort of opportunity to prove themselves. She cursed again and slammed the steering wheel with an open palm in undiluted frustration. Construction might go on for miles. If the old woman continued driving at this pace, she would miss her meeting.
After a moment of despair, she regained composure. There must be an opening in the cones for drivers to pass each other soon. She knew construction in the city was always set up that way, and prayed it wouldn’t take long for a break to appear.
The car felt stuffy with recycled air, and she impulsively lowered the windows. Air, fresh with scent from the spring blossoms of trees that lined the road rushed into the car with surprising intensity. In an instant the old woman was forgotten as cool air swept comfortingly around her. She placed her hand out the window, and it reminded her of times when as a child she had gone driving to the grocery store with her mother. She loved to put her hand outside the window, opening and closing her palm to the wind and telling her mother that they must be going a million miles an hour. She smiled at the distant memory, and for a moment dreamed about a daughter of her own.
The wind blew chaotically over her hand as she turned it, daydreaming until she saw her windblown hair in the rearview mirror. In a panic she withdrew her hand and rolled the windows up. Firmly back in reality, her attention returned to the old, blue, American car holding the ancient woman. She felt anger, amplified by ruined hair, crash through her again.
Her cell phone cried obnoxiously, and she checked the number. It was Mr. Ward’s secretary. For once she was glad he never called anyone himself. A fat man with a round, pink face, Ward was a senior executive with an MBA from Harvard and extensive family connections. He reveled in lording these facts over his subordinates, hailing them as evidence of his superiority. His secretary’s call didn’t mean he wouldn’t speak to her, however. This was standard procedure. The secretary would place the call and wait. When the phone was answered, she would say “Hold for Mr. Ward, please,” before the person could say anything, and then connect the call. A call from Mr. Ward made the recipient feel like a serf, called upon without warning by a baron.
She allowed the phone to ring and gripped the steering wheel tightly. Eventually the noise stopped and the phone emitted a beep to announce one new voicemail. The beep caused her to cringe; she could only imagine how angry Ward’s message would be. I’m almost there. Just another minute and everything will be alright.
She knew Ward would link her being female to her lateness in some sort of way. He was adept at dropping unambiguous remarks, designed to let female junior executives know exactly what he thought, whether it be the way they dressed, their looks, or mannerisms around the office. Her skin turned red with anger when he casually mentioned something to a male coworker about her outfit or inferior intelligence, knowing she was within earshot, and that she could say nothing in reply. Acceptance was part of her job description.
Her eyes welled with tears of anger and frustration. She did her best to hold them back and save her makeup. Today was her one chance to show Mr. Ward what she could do, and every second lost eroded that chance exponentially. On the verge of losing self control, her rage focused onto the car in front of her, and she cursed the old woman for everything--for her lateness, Ward’s behavior, and the endless days and nights of toil, spent only to waste them all this morning. For a moment, she could have killed the old woman for holding her back.
At the height of her fit, construction ended and the pylons opened the road once again. She pressed the gas and began to pass the worn car.
She took a moment to peer at the woman and get her attention, knowing it would serve no greater purpose than to placate her anger. She wanted to scream, or at least signal her opinion with a finger.
But the old woman sat motionless behind the wheel, eyes focused intently on the road. Her windows were rolled down, and air from the outside flowed in, tugging gently at thin white curls of hair. Driving, she paid no attention to her surroundings, but not in a way that suggested a refusal of acknowledgment. She wore the expression of one nearly hypnotized. Her old face, beautiful despite a lifetime’s use, was full of serenity and peace, content and joy, bundled with a curious smile while the fragrant air danced around her old body.
The old woman’s demeanor brought from within her a sense of uneasiness. Why won’t she look? Perplexed by the old woman’s peace, she stared for another moment before accelerating on toward the one place she least wanted to be.
BIO: My name is Stephen G. Shaw, and I attend California State University, Long Beach. I'm a double major in English and Philosophy, and my passion is prose. I plan to go on to graduate school for philosophy, and one day hope to have a job where I can both teach and write.
