today is friday. yesterday was friday. the minutes pass with extreme shortcomings. where was i this week? how many bottles did i fill? how many smiles did i count? how many toes do i remember seeing? this week passes with a breath, in then out.
i am sure it has been done before, sleeping while eyes are open, sleeping behind the wheel, where everything is merely a series of well rehearsed plays, the main characters in the cars i pass.
the fat man with his chubby hands, white knuckles in the slow lane, worrying about the state of his job, how he would feed his family of six if, perhaps, he pulled up to an office of dark windows and locked doors. He takes another bite of the egg mcmuffin, sweat visible on his forehead.
the hispanic trio, huddled tight in the cab of their tiny white truck, paid for with a collaborative effort of three families savings, with dings and dents formed into what almost appears to be a sculptural undertaking. they discuss money transfer rates and that today is payday, tomorrow is a niece's holy communion, a party will be held at her grandmothers with cake and ice cream.
the young girl, barely nineteen, phone tightly pressed into her cheek, sipping a diet coke from a straw, arguing strangely into the tiny receiver with her mother who needed the car for work today, where was she all night? couldn't she have just called? what will she tell her boss? when will she get home? and today, while i'm at work, clean your room, it's a mess. it's the least you could do since you aren't working. the girl abruptly hangs up. crumples the empty cup. throws it in the back seat of her mother's car.
there are more, the well-dressed blonde middle-aged woman in the lexus suv. a successful real estate divorcee, on her way to meet a client, thinking about the date she has later that evening with the humble, homely mortgage broker who earns a rather substantial income. thinking about what she could give up right now for what she might need later on.
the electrician on his way to the west side to fix his ailing father's light switch in the dining room, the room where, last year, his mother had a heart attack. thinking now, how he never thought he would have to be his father's caretaker, how the alzheimer's quickly made it's way into his father's brain, how his mother let him down, once again, leaving him in this position where he would need to drop everything in order to make things right for his father, providing him comfort which was her job and should have been all along.
this is what i see, behind my eyelids, dancing images, the characters in my play. the cars pass in time. my eyes open as i pull into the driveway of school, the play over.
