Scene two
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Andre is thoroughly ticked, stewing, if we are to be on point. He turns the radio off as violently as a radio can be turned off, employing that almost instantaneous flick of a thumb–showing it who pays the insurance.
It doesn’t take particularly long for the calm before to turn into the storm. If you were to clock it, the salient portion could probably fit in a microsecond. Andre felt it building up all morning. He’d always thought about it, and when asked to vote, voted “nay.” Today that microsecond was being overcome by other sentiments. Rebels caught his consciousness unprepared. Rebels inside his mind were making increasingly convincing points. “Just do it man.” “Nah, man, it wouldn’t be right.” “Fuck it. Plus, you _would_ be late. And you know Gina wouldn’t like that.” “Fuck it, indeed. But nah, man.” The daily street agitation had made its inroads in Andre’s mind. CHEMICALS ASSOCIATED WITH ANGER started flooding his bloodstream and lodging themselves in his muscles and mind, working their precious magic. Nay.
“No, no, no, no.” No?
“AH FUCK.” That’s right.
Hard right turn, no turn signal. Shocked faces and angry thoughts, Andre is off.
“I’m out, hahahaha.”- a smile accents the mania.
The comrades of the commute are experiencing panic. The herd feels threatened. Andre is driving recklessly. He wants out of this slow pace.
“Eat shit, fuckers!!@”
He is no longer concerned with making it on time. He just wants out. This DAILY grind has him bugging. Why can’t things go his way, just once? I don’t know. Do you? Do you, you POSSIBLE INFORMANT?
“Every fucking day, every fucking day! Build another lane or two hundred, you corrupt fucks. I PAY TAXES, you corrupt fucks.” Those politicians, those fascists, those animals, less than human, they will pay, wont they, Andre?
“Damn right.” Andre concurs. The engine revs. Sweat builds up on Andre’s forehead. The elbow is no longer sticking out. His FIST is out. All that is missing is a finger.
The Honda stays within the lane, barelly. It looks like a oxygen atom in a compacting chamber, bouncing off the walls.
Andre switches lanes again. He looks like a nutcase to even the sleepiest of morning eyes. The road gets a gift of hot rubber. Cops drink coffee just miles away. Andre is feeling like a little god, protected by all that glass and steel and bone and thoughts. Something is lifting off his chest. Adre feels drunk. Its as if he has arrived at the point of union with his destiny and even if that isn’t the case, fear is no issue. Fuck em.
Rightmost lane, the exit approaches–rapidly. Or is it that the car approaches? Choose a frame of reference, buddy. All I know is that Andre’s must be the moon, since these things called rules of conduct seem so little and trite. Responsible Rebeccas and Serious Sam’s out there concentrate on the back bumper of their fellow commuter vehicle.
“Bunch of horses with blinders…” Don’t forget single track minds, Andre.
Andre misses the exit, but before the point of failed opportunity materializes, he circumvents its necessity.
Hard right turn, no turn signal. Heart palpitations and cold sweats, Andre has logged off and jets into the real world.
