Mileage

Steven counted down the mile markers as they passed.  Each of them was a sign from his own hell, his own Tartarus.  They mocked him, for he knew that though they counted down, the destination did not seem to be getting any closer.  It might as well be the moon, or some far away star, as far as he was concerned.  He knew was never going to reach it. 

                No one else in the car seemed to notice, or care that their trip was descending into a pit.  The two up front were too busy arguing directions and courses of action.  They were oblivious to the droning, banal noise that was blasting from the radio.  Steven wished he could reach the dial.  If only he could change this one thing, his trip might have a small modicum of happiness.  In this landscape, Steven would take that gladly.

            Alas, Steven was stuck in the back, in steerage, the cheap seats.  Back here a man held to no law but that which he could enforce himself.  It was indeed a wasteland.  The one to his left was unceasing in his conversation but lacking in any substance.  Tripe poured from his mouth like a fountain of poor anecdotes and dead end tales.  Steven would have done unspeakable things to escape this one’s incessant babbling.  All he could do at this point was smile, nod, and hope he ran out of stories about his children.

            At least the one to his right was sleeping.  However, in his slumber, he emitted from his body a sound so fierce, so incredibly alien and complex in its form, that Steven swore it was the devil himself, speaking to Steven through the body of this overworked office manager.  He began to fear being enslaved by its unholy calling.  This was not snoring, this was satanic incantations. 

            Steven sighed and focused on the road, the only viewpoint that afforded any relief.  The mileage markers slowly counted down again and again.  He prayed for the turn off.  He prayed to be free of this suffocating cage of steel and rubber and human breath.  Steven did not want to car pool anymore.