Just a Minute is Important on the Morning Commute

Gazing around from my spot in the driver’s seat, I see that I need to get gas and straighten the passenger floor mat that’s askew. Huh, I don’t think I’ve ever used that word before. The dash display clicks to 7:53. Good, it looks like I’ll make it to work on time.

What a morning! I’d dropped my toast on the counter, jelly-side down of course, as required by Murphy’s Law. I was doing ok with time despite having that extra kitchen clean-up and inadequate breakfast, but when I got to my car, I noticed mismatched black pumps on my feet. Duh! Rushing back upstairs to my apartment and digging in the back bedroom closet for a matching shoe ate up some more time before I could get back to my car and be on my way. Luckily I’d made it easily through the dozen or so lights on my surface-street commute downtown. Those lost minutes had nearly been made up by the time I stopped at the intersection of Citrus Avenue and 14th Street, one of the city’s biggest, with three lanes of traffic in each direction.

I’m the first car behind the limit line at the red light, impatiently waiting for the green. Tapping my fingers to the end of REO Speedwagon’s “One Lonely Night” on the oldies station, singing ‘one lonely minute, that’s all it takes to completely late you.’ The morning mouths jabber about something or other, the raspy laugh of the ex-smoker DJ is a harsh grating sound to my ears.

Will my boss bring doughnuts to the morning staff meeting? My nails look like they need a manicure. The phone beeps a text in, maybe it’s Chris inviting me to lunch at the taco cart by the library. Doughnuts and tacos, I should have made another piece of toast. Such random thoughts pop into my head while waiting for the green light, does this happen to everybody? I like to think I'm normal, but who knows! There’s a blue Honda on my left, a white Ford pick-up on the right, and me in the middle in a red Toyota. Patriotic colors like the flag over there at the post office. Maybe I’ll go to the river with Andy for July 4th. The clanging drums of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” bang as the light turns green and I go.

White truck goes right, blue and red cars advance in tandem. Suddenly, a silver BMW shoots out from the farthest lane, zipping across the intersection in front of us, against his red light! Blue and I immediately brake hard, then fishtail!

We must have had the instructions of “what to do in a skid” drilled into our heads in driver’s training, because somehow we both turn into the skid and begin a ballet of synchronized skidding across the intersection, parallel to each other, in step with Springsteen’s pounding beat. To the left, to the right, to the left, straight, stop. Whew! My knuckles are white, my fingers clenched in a deathgrip on the steering wheel. Bruce bursts into song. I breathe.

We’re ok! We didn’t slam into each other, or anything else. My heart is pounding like crazy, but I take another deep breath and glance over at Blue. She looks right back at me. We stare wide-eyed at each other for a moment, attempt tenuous smiles, then both lift our shoulders in a ‘what was that, wow, we’re lucky’ gesture, and drive slowly onward. I’m shaky, and imagine she is too. Bruce keeps singing as the dash clock clicks to 7:54. There must be a chocolate doughnut waiting for me! I deserve one.