Drt by Eric Thomas Page A

friends, so I couldn't really complain because there was no one to complain to, no one to even have a simple conversation with about mundane things like the weather or how awful reality shows were. If it wasn’t for reading the traffic reports on air my vocal chords would have withered long ago from atrophy. But for the moment I was just happy to have a job, happy to have a life, and the only way I was going to keep it was if I could maintain my composure. Maintaining composure meant vigilance, at least until I could Be Well.
    I drove to work, just trying to adhere to the routine. If I got lost in the grind again, my mind would stop hiccupping. I tried to let everything go, twisting the window down so I could create a breeze. The air was soupy, a choking mixture of exhaust and humidity. It stuck in the air as if an ocean had been dropped on top of the road and the cars were merely swimming through.  
    I got off the bridge and kept right to stay on the Beltway. I realized where I was and felt the world around me slow down. I was approaching the place where it happened this morning.  
    Shivers ran the length of my spine. This was the same route the now dead driver took before he died. He took in the same information as I was taking in right now, I-66, the Bridge, the curve to stay on the Beltway, all of it the same but different in a million different ways in a span of a few hours.  
    I felt like I was retracing history. It doesn't matter if it happened yesterday or a thousand years ago. As soon as the moment has passed it is history and that word is what the trucker had been reduced to. He drove this same route that I drove now just like millions of people would do for decades after, unaware of the now vanished giant twist of metal with the clumping blood beneath it.  
    That’s when I saw the skid marks. They were gigantic. A pair of dark tire marks on a highway is commonplace, but from a massive tractor trailer they can take your breath away. The black marks were wide and the space between them stretched out for yards. They told the tale of a desperate fight to remain alive but their tale ended with an obvious conclusion. The giant streaks arched and went into the trees, which stood indifferently with small scratches where the metal had been removed in the afternoon.  
    I shivered as I buried these thoughts back down and drove a little faster past Connecticut Ave before taking the exit for Georgia Ave. I parked and gathered up the things I needed into my bag and hurried into work under the cover of darkness.  
    There was a so called break room at the network. It was a blue room with a refrigerator, sink, coffee pot and a window. An ancient TV perched high above the room on the refrigerator, always on News Channel 8.  
    “An area man is dead tonight after a crash involving a tractor trailer and a disabled vehicle. Forty-nine year old Jerry Morris was traveling along the Inner Loop of the Beltway when he swerved to miss a car that was parked in the right lane. The Beltway was closed for several hours before finally....”
    Amy, who at some point had walked into the break room to get a frozen meal, said “So wow. That's the guy, huh?”  
    I didn’t respond to her question as I was too busy remarking over the puzzling coincidence that the man in the picture on television was the same figment of my imagination that had stuck its head in my car this morning.  
    “Greg, are you okay?” said Amy.  
    I felt cold sweat begin to bathe my skin. “I'm fine! I am…fine.”  
    “It's cuz you watched it, right?”  
    “Yeah, yeah.”  
    “Maybe you should get some water. You look like you could use some air too.”  
    She walked back to the studio. I got up and walked to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank. The cold water felt good and soothed my suddenly dry mouth. I repeated this with the water a few more times. The images of the man from this morning were bright as a beacon through the murky darkness.