Triangulation, cont.
The fit is tight but comfortable, reassuring; a reminder of my faith. The vest is black, with square pockets sewn into the sides and backs. It hugs my torso, its metal clasps and industrial Velcro embracing me. The pockets are full of course, their message potent and true. The car I am in is a Buick LeSabre; a lively piece of shit that rolls and rollicks in time with every nuance of the road. A clean machine it's not.
The countryside blurs around me; a messy slideshow of pastures, livestock and oaks. The commute is a fairly long one--God knows I've endured it more than any human should. But it will be over soon. Sooner than later, since I'm going against traffic.
It's Friday, a little after 3. The leaves are begining to turn, albeit a bit reluctantly. It seems they too haven't had their fill of the sun just yet. September in the countryside is a mind-numbing blast of color. Usually. This year, however, has only seen a bit off change, the yellowing leaves still holding on to the spring's green.
The blurring landscape begins to change, devolve; livestock and hay fields meld into asphault lots and retail coffee shops--a mass of capital, investments and overhead. Things will get better soon. I have to believe it. I do believe it.
This trip has been three years in the making, a result of careful planning, fastidious savings and a careful eye to detail. Some are suspicious, I'm sure; others non-believers who are afraid to face the truth. They will soon enough.
I point the rattling, bobbing Buick through every lane marked "City Center," just as I've done for as long as I can remember. Day in, day out, the same old route. I used to say that often, but menacingly, forming the words with my teeth and lips and bile. Traffic is begining to pick up in the opposite direction; the inevitable Friday rush that emboldens downtown's workforce to take off early. But no matter how early they start, they never quite make it where they want to be, when they want to be there. It's always too little, too late.
I edge off of the freeway, coming to a stop light where I've turned left, and been cut off, so many times I couldn't begin to count. Two more blocs, then a left. Then a right. And I'm right in front, for all to see, for all to begin living the lives they were meant to. The light turns, flashing green. I feel the car pull forward, the wheel turning, the engine accelerating. The car changes lanes, coasts for another block. Another stop light. The car and I are now one entity, being held against our will by yet another form of technology. The light changes. Things are speeding up. Cars are moving, stopping and starting in a hectic, jolting dance. Another light. One more turn. Green. The car jumps from its idle, eager, as I am, to set the world on a new course.
The building was built in 1945. It houses 25 different companies, from countless industries; advertising, finance, accounting...it's all there, begging to be let go from their tired beings. It's an older style of architecture, what era, I don't know. There are columns and large, single paned windows at distant intervals. It's a shame, really, because as much as the excrement it houses on the inside, the outside is quite striking. What's built is meant to fall. I exhale the last word as I pull up to the curb directly in front of the main entrance.
People file in and out, mostly out, though, eager to get out of town and into traffic. They'll forget soon enough. I stare ahead, holding the electronic trigger close to my heart. And even though the vest is thich and heavy, I feel my heart pulsating through it, electrifying the wires and batteries and coils snaking around my mindsection. It's silent. My eyes open. The world freezes. It's time.
****
To be continued.
The countryside blurs around me; a messy slideshow of pastures, livestock and oaks. The commute is a fairly long one--God knows I've endured it more than any human should. But it will be over soon. Sooner than later, since I'm going against traffic.
It's Friday, a little after 3. The leaves are begining to turn, albeit a bit reluctantly. It seems they too haven't had their fill of the sun just yet. September in the countryside is a mind-numbing blast of color. Usually. This year, however, has only seen a bit off change, the yellowing leaves still holding on to the spring's green.
The blurring landscape begins to change, devolve; livestock and hay fields meld into asphault lots and retail coffee shops--a mass of capital, investments and overhead. Things will get better soon. I have to believe it. I do believe it.
This trip has been three years in the making, a result of careful planning, fastidious savings and a careful eye to detail. Some are suspicious, I'm sure; others non-believers who are afraid to face the truth. They will soon enough.
I point the rattling, bobbing Buick through every lane marked "City Center," just as I've done for as long as I can remember. Day in, day out, the same old route. I used to say that often, but menacingly, forming the words with my teeth and lips and bile. Traffic is begining to pick up in the opposite direction; the inevitable Friday rush that emboldens downtown's workforce to take off early. But no matter how early they start, they never quite make it where they want to be, when they want to be there. It's always too little, too late.
I edge off of the freeway, coming to a stop light where I've turned left, and been cut off, so many times I couldn't begin to count. Two more blocs, then a left. Then a right. And I'm right in front, for all to see, for all to begin living the lives they were meant to. The light turns, flashing green. I feel the car pull forward, the wheel turning, the engine accelerating. The car changes lanes, coasts for another block. Another stop light. The car and I are now one entity, being held against our will by yet another form of technology. The light changes. Things are speeding up. Cars are moving, stopping and starting in a hectic, jolting dance. Another light. One more turn. Green. The car jumps from its idle, eager, as I am, to set the world on a new course.
The building was built in 1945. It houses 25 different companies, from countless industries; advertising, finance, accounting...it's all there, begging to be let go from their tired beings. It's an older style of architecture, what era, I don't know. There are columns and large, single paned windows at distant intervals. It's a shame, really, because as much as the excrement it houses on the inside, the outside is quite striking. What's built is meant to fall. I exhale the last word as I pull up to the curb directly in front of the main entrance.
People file in and out, mostly out, though, eager to get out of town and into traffic. They'll forget soon enough. I stare ahead, holding the electronic trigger close to my heart. And even though the vest is thich and heavy, I feel my heart pulsating through it, electrifying the wires and batteries and coils snaking around my mindsection. It's silent. My eyes open. The world freezes. It's time.
****
To be continued.
posted by The Haiku Review at 10:33 PM
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