By Dan Eastman
In the morning, I cram my large body into my car. I drive a maroon 2013 Hyundai Elantra. It’s sun bleached and riddled with dents from teenagers crashing shopping carts into it. Weather’s hot as fuck and my shirt sticks to my back with sweat, which I then lean against the seat. I pray the AC is up to the day’s challenge.
Heading into the highway, I scream at other drivers to let me merge in front of them. I punch the dashboard when a pair of 18-wheelers box me in behind another 18-wheeler.
When a driver in another lane passes me, it’s personal, a competition. I floor it to 80. He still passes me.
How anyone stays sober through this I don’t know.
There is a direct relationship between my grip on the wheel and my detachment from reality. At a stoplight, I look over into the opposite lane and do not envy the herd of cars backed up to the horizon. I see a twisted abstraction of motorcycle and flesh and I curse the irresponsibility of the assholes that caused the accident bringing us to a crawl. Stupid assholes.
I remember the comedy podcast I have playing. I imagine the Elantra in a ditch, cops coming upon my corpse, and Bert Kreischer’s stupid fucking laugh still playing out of the speakers. I turn it off.
I’m running late. I must become more car than man. We are all vehicles. Our pleather and beige interiors marked with coffee stains and smoke break ash. All of us racing to jobs we hate.
Arriving with minutes to spare, I let the relief and reliable air conditioning wash over me. I let the cortisol and blood pressure drop. I thank the mercy of managers I’ve never met that view me as an asset, an abstraction.
Somewhere on Earth, a zen monk meditates on the beauty of all sentient beings. I envy him. I want what he has but no. I am inflexible. My foot will never touch the gas pedal from the lotus position.
Dan Eastman is a father, husband, and all around chill dude. He lives in Allentown.