My initial reaction to Jemma’s ongoing groans was an Archie Bunker approach: call her a dingbat and tell her to stifle herself. But I didn’t. I kept my cool instead of renouncing it. We were just miles from the exit, though I had to squint, the sign was quite clear-a visible, metaphorical exit, a gateway to my near freedom, my breath of fresh air, my money! For a minute there I thought I had it all, like in a corny music video, clouds surrounding me, smoke and flames. Wait…smoke and flames? What’s that now? Smoke and flames; a car about twenty, twenty nine yards ahead of ours had erupted in flames, hence the smoke. There were ambulances everywhere. Police officers were crowding the area urging drivers and passengers to, “Return to your vehicles.” I was aghast, angry in fact, how dare this careless driver halt my way to perfection? I was furious. Did this driver not get his tune-up this past month, did he forget he left something in the front hood of the car, or was he just a drunken ass?!
Jemma kept asking me over and over again what’s going on. I couldn’t understand how hard it was for her to just gather what she saw and form that into a self-explanation.
“Don’t you see?” I taunted, “It’s a car accident, Jem.”
“Oh,” she sounded.
I rolled my eyes, partly because this was the millionth thing I had to explain to her since getting married, and partly because I just gave up hope on the whole situation. I was losing my faith in everything. Nothing and no one seemed to be giving me an easier time. I tried to approach every situation with ease and gumption, but all it did was return the favor with procrastination, stalling me from the source of my happiness, my future happiness that is.
They say what you see is what you get and so I stared. I stared at the accident ahead of me, at the dingbat wife to the right of me, and at my pale skinny fingers restlessly tapping on the driving wheel. What was this? What the hell was this? I kept on asking myself this very question over and over. Up to the point I was the reason for my migraine. Every inch of my life seemed so fake, so undetermined, so petty, and most of all, so wasted. I felt empty waiting in that seat for the traffic to clear. I felt empty watching those innocent people being rushed to aid. I felt crushed, invaded, intruded on, but so alone and empty. I wanted out-out of everything I had gotten myself into. This fix with Tony, this marriage, and most of all-the tofu. How I resented that food. The one substitute for every starch and protein known to man.
I turned to Jemma wanting to tell her how I felt, how exhausted I’ve been for the past few weeks, how terribly suffocated she’d made me feel, how my love for her wasn’t in the slightest way sincere. I wanted to blurt at how much time I’ve wasted waiting…waiting for money. Yes, that green, grimy paper making way through my hands, being the buffer to all that promised rich and great, with flat-screen televisions and high-end prostitutes, all the while giving me paper cuts that I’d cherish because money was the key to everything. I wanted to tell Jemma of how I had obscenely gestured her father in the house of a supposed God, something I believed to be malarkey.
And then the traffic cleared, I felt a tear run down my cheek thinking, the gateway is clear now, my mind can choose, I took one final thought . . .
←[ Previous Episode ] SerealitiesSerealities [ Next Episode ]→
Follow by Email