• Heat, Traffic, and a Broken Radio at 3 in the afternoon
    It’s hot. Too hot. I roll down my window and stick my head out like an exhausted doberman. This is a lousy time for my air conditioning to break. I can feel the beads of sweat forming on my upper lip, and I wipe them off with my cotton sleeve. I push the button to turn on my radio, but I’m greeted by static. I take my hands off the wheel and sit back in my fake leather seat. The hot, sweaty skin on my bare legs sticks to it. I hate being stuck in traffic.
    I turn my attention to those stuck with me. It’s strange being caught in traffic. I feel a sort of kinship with the strangers in my same situation, but I hate them at the same time. They’re the reason I’m here and not home. If they all disappeared, my commute would be so much easier. With my radio broken, and my windows down, I’m able to really observe them. I feel like Jane Goodall, crouched behind a bush, taking notes on the savage apes blissfully unaware of her presence.
    There’s a man stuck in the slow lane in a large, crimson utility truck. I can tell he never uses it for what it was built for. It’s as clean as the day it rolled of the production line. He’s bumping his well-oiled bald head to some indistinguishable music. It sounds like electronica. He looks in my direction, but I can’t tell if he’s looking at me. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses, and he’s above my line of vision because his truck is raised. I sigh and shift my focus else ware.
    There’s a family of four on my left, right outside my window. The father in the front seat of the death-black minivan looks as if he’s only moments away from slamming his balding head on the steering wheel. His wife, an aging blonde bombshell, is checking her make-up in the mirror. She pats away the years of child bearing and PTA meetings with a thick, creamy concealer. The two children in the backseat are more than unaware of their parent’s distress. They’re staring blankly at the backs of the headrests before them, transfixed on the silly antics of a sea sponge and his mentally handicapped starfish friend.
    I can’t tell who’s in front of me, but whoever he is, he obviously wants me to know more about him. He has hundreds of self-important stickers plastered all over the back of his plain white, unmarked panel van. If his van doesn’t scream “pull me over, I’m a vegan peace-loving child molester” I don’t know what does. A small yellow cartoon chicken stares up at me from his greasy, worn bumper. The little speech bubble above his fluffy head reads, “Please don’t eat me. I deserve to live.” The last thing I want while driving is for someone I haven’t even met to tell me that I’m evil for eating chicken McNuggets.
    I roll my window back up to block out the bumping electronica from the big red truck, and suddenly traffic starts to move again. I glance at the people I’ve been observing, almost sad to leave them behind. Luckily, I forget about them as I step on the gas and my radio picks up a signal.