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.

The Tip

Steven did not like being made a fool of.  He did not like to be singled out, to be made an example of, as it were.  He could not shake the feeling that this was precisely what was happening to him right now.  His companions were oblivious.  They were too engaged in some inane conversation about how so and so was dating what’s his name, Steven fumed.  There was a conspiracy afoot.  He was sure of it.

            They had not seen their waiter in some time.  That lying, grinning, harlequin with the ill-fitting tie had disappeared into an abyss somewhere in the kitchen.  Usually, Steven would not care if the goon took his loud guffawing and terrible puns and disappeared from his life completely.  Sadly, Steven needed something from him.

            The other one came by.  But this one seemed only capable of imbecilic greetings and offers of water.  He didn’t want more water dammit, couldn’t they see that?  They were surely trying to drown him.  Like Noah he was, except he was floating in a sea of idiocy.  He picked at his food.  He had lost his appetite early and did not have the desire to try and force this overcooked slop down his throat.  He feared he would starve to death sitting here, waiting.

            His friends laughed at something else.  He did not care to know what.  They were not truly his friends anyway.  They were people he tolerated when he wanted people to think he cared about going out and being social.  The truth is, he did, mostly.  But times like this, when they were at the mercy of some unseen antagonist who for all Steven know had fallen through a worm hole somewhere behind the bar, these were the times he hated people.

            The lack wit came by again, trying to give Steven more water.  Steven sighed and acquiesced.  They would hound him endlessly if he continued to resist.  He might as well accept his fate at this point.  He would never leave this restaurant alive.  This kitschy theme diner would be his tomb.  Steven did know one thing for certain.  That waiter would not be getting a tip.  

Rental

            Steven was not having a good time.  The others were, apparently.  Their laughter sounded to him like the braying of mules.  Their guffaws and snorts only served to highlight their own stupidity.  Like primates with a new toy they could not disguise their revolting naivete and immaturity.  This also made them clueless to his own suffering.  But this was for the best, Steven thought.  None of them could possibly understand his pain in the least.

            Steven was stimulated by thoughtful discourse, by interesting events.  He wanted plots that excited and surprised him.  He desired characters that were fluid, not static in their behavior.  What he was getting was hellish.  This drivel was not art.  It wasn’t even entertainment.  It was pretty lights for morons.  It was the lowest common denominator. 

            But strangely, he could not look away, like Alex DeLarge he felt as if someone had fastened his gaze upon what was before him, and he was unable to close his eyes.  This frustrated and shamed him.  Apparently he took some kind of joy in the sophomoric display before him; there could be no other explanation.  This of course meant that he was no better than those Cro-Magnons he shared a home with.

            They exploded with laughter yet again, these chirping magpies, these shrill harpies.  The object of their amusement was some person on the screen.  This person was apparently quite clumsy, and their lack of coordination somehow resulted in comedy of the lowest order.  Steven had made many suggestions for an alternative to this, but all had been shot down.  He did not understand.  He had even lowered his standards and suggested titles that were not his usual fare, but in an attempt to compromise he had made an exception just this once.  Even this olive branch he had extended had been set afire and overruled.

            Steven sighed.  It was one of this big, obvious sighs that drips with boredom and frustration.  Sadly, the others were too engrossed in their own pleasure to even bat an eye.  Fools, he thought. He would remember this injustice for as long as he lived, which considering what was currently being presented to him as entertainment, might not be very long.  This was the last time he would ever let his roommates pick the movie.

Mittens

Steven despised this creature.  He knew the loathing was mutual, as well.  He knew by the sounds emitted from this loathsome pest every time Steven attempted to dislodge it from its home deep beneath the massive, four posted bed.  His forearms bared the scars of many previous encounters the two adversaries had shared.

            Mittens was not of this earth.  It was a creature out of ancient lore; the kind that would destroy entire villages in its wrath.  Great warriors would go off in search of its hide, only to end up as bones, fertilizing the plains of some foreign land.  Its dough eyes and disarming looks belayed a savage nature.  This was a creature ready to kill him, Steven knew.  It was only waiting for the right moment to strike.  He could not dare to let his guard down, even for a moment in this place.  He was the prey here, never the prey.

            The food lay nearby untouched, precisely as he had left it the day before.  This was a message he knew.  The beast wanted to undermine Steven, make him seem irresponsible, like he had shirked his duties.  Steven had not prepared to face a creature that was not afraid of harming itself if it meant getting what it wanted.  He spoke to the beast defiantly as he refreshed the stale food and fetched new water.  He wanted it to know exactly what he was doing.  He would not be intimidated.

            Only 2 more days, he told himself, then it would be over.  He and Mittens could get back to merely tolerating each other.  They would pretend they got a long for appearances, but at least then they would not have to rely on each other.  They could just pass each other like strangers in the night, neither having to acknowledge the other.

            Steven howled in pain as he pulled his hand back again, this time fresh with new marks.  It had broken the skin this time.  Steven raged.  He roiled, he cursed the creature and whatever black mother had birthed it onto this earth.  He shouted curses until his vocabulary was utterly exhausted.  All the while those cold, yellow eyes stared, unblinking.  Finally, Steve calmed down enough, to clean his new wounds and finish his duties here.  He locked the door behind him, leaving the demon behind.  And he thought about how much he really hated his girl friends cat.

Torment

The Line seemed to stretch on forever.  Steven contorted his body around the large woman with the stained Mickey Mouse t-shirt in front of him.  His temporary new view afforded him no relief.  He glanced at his watch for what seemed like the four hundredth time since he began this long, slow, death march.

                As he moved forward, slowly, painfully dreadfully slow.  He saw that the line did not end, but veered off in another direction like some sort of Sisyphean torture.  Perhaps those far in front of him, those heads that were barely visible by the top of their sunburned heads, felt as he did.  But he doubted it.  They surely achieved some level of understanding by their long captivity and had accepted their fate.

                The metal bars that divided him from his fellow travelers on the river Styx mocked him.  They were close and yet so far.  He dare not bond with any of his fellows lest they be forced to move in and he would be left alone, yet again.  Better to be alone, he thought.  He did not want to make human connections here.  Connections were dangerous here.  Bond with someone and before long they are crossing the sacred lines, bypassing others.  This is not what Steven wanted to be a part of.

The video monitors mocked Steven.  They spoke of a joy and happiness that he was beginning to doubt he would ever see.  He could hear signs of it, certainly.  As the metal beast roared over his head he could hear the faint cries of those who had weathered the journey and made it to the Promised Land.  That spurred him on.  For if there was a prize at the end as glorious as he hoped it would be, all would be worth it.

                He glanced at his watch for the four hundredth and first time.  The hands mocked him.  He could swear they were going backwards in defiance.  How long had it been?  His sanity was in question now.  His vision was lying to him.  He could have sworn this was the end of it, around this corner here.  Instead he only saw more humanity stretched out before him.  The huddled masses pushing forward, all praying that their torment was at an end.

                Steven smiled, looked up to the heavens, and began to laugh.  Others around him actually joined in, assuming they were missing out on some unseen antic.  A rolling mass of humanity laughing at nothing except their own misery.  And Steven thought, this damn ride better be worth it.