By Matej Purg

I keep my foot on the gas. I’m flying. The rubber barely touches the asphalt. I’m on a cloud above everyone else. I whizz past Kias, Toyotas, Beamers. Radiohead is on. I’m playing hooky from work. I white-knuckle the steering wheel as I zip in and out of lanes. The coke dealer said fifteen minutes. That was eight minutes ago. I’m out of cigarettes but there’s no time for a pit stop at the 7-Eleven ahead, not in this kind of traffic. I don’t want to let the guy down or, even worse, cut me off. I have to be at the corner seven minutes from now. I’m a professional, slacks, shirt, recent haircut, black Audi. I’m headed to a business transaction. We’re business partners, the guy and I. I’m the client. He’s my supplier. As long as I’m punctual, reliable, and hand him a stack of bills every couple days he’ll never think of me as a junkie. No way.

I grunt at the 7-Eleven I’m passing and dig my finger through the ashtray. Maybe there’s a cigarette butt with some meat left on the bone in there. I need to smoke. It calms me down. I pluck something from the ashes, something twisted, gray, discarded, ugly, something I shouldn’t be smoking. I should quit smoking altogether. I should empty the ashtray. I should clean the car. This is a nice car. I made it ugly. I should call the guy and cancel. Thanks but no thanks. I should drive to the daycare and pick up my boy and take him to the playground. Babies love sand boxes and swings and rattles that make irritating noises. They love everything. They just love. My son loves. He loves me. I wish I could love him too. 

I blow the ashes from the filter. I straighten the stumped-out butt. It looks smokable. I place it between my lips. I pat my pockets for a lighter. The UPS truck in front of me comes to a stop. I pop out of my lane. I don’t see the motorcycle in my blind spot. I miss it by a hair. It wobbles, skids, the rider buckles. It doesn’t look like he’ll make it but then he does. I could have killed him, I guess. I roll down the window, my hand lashes out, middle finger erect.

The light up ahead turns yellow. I put pedal to the metal. Where’s the fucking lighter? I open the middle console, dig my hand into the pile of trash in there. The light turns red. A mom pushes her stroller into the intersection. She doesn’t see me. She doesn’t expect me. How could she? Her light is green. I hit the brakes, close my eyes. Screeching tires. Screaming. Cigarette butt drops from lips. Ashy aftertaste. Silence.

Fuck.

My. 

Life.

Their lives were in my hands. My life was in my hands. My baby’s life was in my hands. I clench the steering wheel. When I open my eyes my knuckles are white. So is the mother’s face; frozen in silent panic, a mask you’d wear for Halloween. The baby is chewing on a fake plastic watering can. It looks happy. They are alive. I glance at my watch. I got four minutes. They are in my way. I’m gonna be late. I can’t be late. Junkies are late. I am not a junkie. 

I slam my fist on the horn. It startles the mom and her face unfreezes. She howls, kicks my bumper, calls me names.

How.

Dare.

She.

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Matej Purg is a writer living in Los Angeles.