monday song #57: cattle
think of the millions of cars on this planet.
the millions driving around. the millions rusting in wrecking yards and standing on blocks. the millions that exist only in the memory of humans long dead.
so many goddamn cars. why would he ever think he could possibly make it to work on time?
sure, it’s a holiday. but it’s only martin luther king day. about a forty percent acceptance rate on that one. and his company falls on the other side of that equation.
traffic usually doesn’t bother him. he would occupy himself with progressive talk radio or npr, both raising his blood pressure in a controlled manner.
but this morning he has a presentation, and he hasn’t finished the powerpoint. he could have done it last night, but those last two beers looked so lonely, and someone needed to keep youtube in business.
his fists are balled in wrought-iron disappointment.
when he was in his twenties he had no self-respect, so he wouldn’t think twice about punching the steering wheel when he was frustrated. he’d punch it hard. it got to the point that he had permanently raised knuckles, black and blue and purple, even a little orange if it was a bad week.
sure, part of it was the byproduct of a job delivering pizza. he still plans to nominate the lowlife who robbed him at knifepoint for a nobel prize in honor of the priceless gift of showing him that there are better ways to earn a dollar than humiliating yourself delivering food.
until this particular moment, this job seemed like one of them. but he’s having serious doubts.
there may not be a hungry guy with a ten inch fishing knife, but the accelerated aging process that comes with knowing you are not going to make a critical meeting, and you have no way of alerting your boss of that fact since you left the phone on the kitchen table, suddenly seems equally as dangerous.
yes. there are certainly a lot of cars.
billions of cars.
and here he is in this one.
and before he makes it another quarter mile, he will be pummeling the steering wheel, careful not to hit the horn, because he doesn’t want to draw attention. in a car, as long as you’re silent, you’re invisible.