makemymark

Short Story: Traffic

I’m fucking late. I’m always fucking late. I stab the key into the ignition of my embarrassingly old car. In retaliation it refuses to start. The starter motor hisses at me disobediently. I try again. Hiss. I try a third time. The engine begrudgingly grumbles into action. I put my car into gear and accelerate recklessly up the road. Disapproving neighbours cut their eyes and shake their heads at me as I pass them. I chuck a quick left and then a right. I try and edge my way into the queue of predictably heavy traffic on the high street. A pair of schoolboys suddenly step out in front of me. I punch the horn. I regret doing so. The pitch of the horn on my car is unusually high. I always seem to forget this fact when overcome by a bit of road rage. The schoolboys laugh at me and give me the finger. A wave of nostalgia sweeps over me. I’d have done the same back in the day. I’m not letting the insult slide though. My basic grasp of sign language allows me to silently reply that they are a pair of little wankers. This results in further exaggerated laughter.

 Now I’m pretty sure that basic driving etiquette states if you are sitting in a queue of stationary traffic and a fellow driver wishes to join said queue, it is appropriate and polite to allow them to do so. Typically, it appears that such etiquette is lost on this morning’s drivers. No fucker wants to let me in. Fuck you very much Mr White van man. Fuck you very much Mr Mediterranean in the Mercedes. And fuck you very much yummy mummy in the people carrier. Eventually an old dear in a Nissan Micra hesitates momentarily and I capitalise. As a visible display of gratitude I appropriately and politely flash my hazard lights, however.

Settled in the queue, I accept that I’m going nowhere fast, and scan the radio for some musical escapism. I listen to a fat northern bastard. He recounts how he raised a massive amount for charity, a result of manning the longest radio show in history, apparently. It was all down to a potent cocktail of sheer endurance and determination, apparently. The self indulgence makes my empty stomach churn. I should’ve grabbed some breakfast. I would rather eat my own eyeballs than listen to him for fifty hours. I ask myself if he manned the longest radio show in history for free. I wonder if he waivered his grossly inflated wages. Probably not, I reason, fat northern bastard. I switch station, concluding that some mind numbing advertising is preferable.

I reach the first of many mini roundabouts. They never fail to highlight the distinctly poor standard of driving I have to contend with every fucking morning. Give way to traffic on the right. Simple, no? Mr White van man shows total disregard for other motorists, and the rules. The fucker pulls out on a young lady in a Seat Ibiza. A near miss. She lets out a steady flow of expletives, barely audible over the awful funky house that spews from her speakers. Mr Mediterranean in the Mercedes displays stereotypical arrogance and blocks the roundabout. Those put out by his arrogance keep quiet. Car politics take over. It is the apparent right of Mr Mediterranean in the Mercedes to do as he pleases. I’d have let the fucker have it. Yummy mummy in the people carrier hesitates. And then hesitates some more. And then goes. And then changes her mind. And then goes. My patience is admirable.

  I scan the pavements as my car slowly creeps forward. A pair of schoolgirls appear to be having a bit of a row, face to face, gesticulating animatedly at one and other. The bigger girl towers over the smaller girl, who is unconvincing in her actions.  A group of spectators have gathered around them. The bigger girl delivers a crushing verbal blow and pushes the smaller girl in her chest. The spectators explode into hysterics. The smaller girl scuttles away from the mob; her head hung low, defeat etched across her sad face. I’d like to wind down my window and tell the bigger girl that she is really quite fat and that she should consider wearing trousers as opposed to a short kilt and knee socks. I don’t though. Not my battle.   

 I can’t help but admire the diversity of the stream of schoolboys and girls that lazily meander on towards their destination, the secondary school a few hundred metres down the street. Anglo Saxon kids and African kids and Asian kids and Caribbean kids and eastern European kids and Greek kids and Turkish kids, made equal and united under the common denominator of an ugly black and grey uniform. And that mug of a prime minister says multiculturalism in Britain has failed. He wants to get himself to Edmonton. The public school educated mug.

A big bloke in a tracksuit weaves purposefully in and out of the human traffic. He is closely followed by a couple of waddling Bull Terriers. One of the terriers, the one with the bollocks, lags behind. He stops and defecates, then excitedly catches up with his master and his bitch. I shake my head in disgust. I consider sounding my camp horn again and using sign language to indicate to the big bloke that there is a steaming hot shit that needs picking up. I think better of it. The big bloke looks like a man in a hurry.

I note flashing blue lights up ahead. Fuck. My car is hot. My driver’s side wing mirror is cracked and patched up with gaffer tape. My passenger’s side wing mirror is cracked. My front tyres are as bald as my old man. My driver’s side brake light is out. My car is a police officer’s wet dream. Three points here, three points there. If I get stopped my car is as good as gone. Fucking hell, so is my licence. The Mrs has been cracking on to me for months about getting it all sorted out. Fuck.  I want to turn around. I’m fucking late anyway.

I nervously edge a little closer. I can now see that the flashing blue lights are coming from a couple of stationary ambulances.  A police car blocks the file of traffic on the other side of the street. An annoying chorus of horns squeals in the distance. What a touch. The bacon won’t be giving me a tug if they are a preoccupied with a road traffic incident, happy days. Relaxed in my seat, I edge closer still. I know it’s a total fucking cliché but I can’t take my eyes off of the drama. The central reservation slightly obscures my view. I see a few motorists have abandoned their cars and are surveying the scene, carrying an air of concern about them. One bloke is on his mobile. A woman bites her fingernails and shakes her head mournfully. Fuck. This is getting heavy. A team of focussed paramedics are working on a man. The man lies prone on his back. I can’t see his face. I can see his trainers. I can see his jeans. I can see his exposed chest, a paramedic pumps rhythmically on it and looks over at her colleague. I read her expression. I’ve already seen it once this morning. Defeat is etched across her face.

And then I see her.

 I see a little girl; she is no older than seven. She is dressed smartly in her primary school uniform; a watercress green cardigan, white blouse, grey skirt and matching tights. She wears expertly polished black shoes with shining silver buckles. She clutches a bright red lunchbox in one hand, her other hand rests on her pale cheek; she anxiously digs her little fingernails into the flesh.

The little girl is awkwardly positioned between the team of paramedics. She is almost getting in the way. She is surrounded by people, unfamiliar faces. She is confused. She is lost. She is totally alone. The faceless man that the paramedics are desperately trying to save is her daddy. I imagine him helping dress her. I imagine him proudly polishing her shoes. I imagine him defiantly slipping a Kit Kat into her bright red lunchbox; despite his wife’s insistence that chocolate is bad for their daughter and should only be given as an occasional treat.

There is no indication of an accident. There is no sign that the faceless man was cut down by one of the endless drivers, in a careless hurry to get to where they’re going. There is no blood, no gore. The hauntingly abandoned Ford Focus, boxed in by emergency service vehicles, is his car.

I imagine their commute, the small talk that takes place between a proud father and a little girl who still feels a little scared every morning before she gets to school. He tells her, as he does every day, that she will be fine and that he will be waiting for her at the school gates at three fifteen. He rests one hand on the steering wheel. His other hand holds her little hand comfortingly.

 Then the sudden chest pain cripples him, shooting angrily to the left. He tries to ignore it. It is intense, so intense. His grip on her little hand tightens.

What’s wrong daddy?

Nothing darling, nothing. He lies.

The shortness of breath makes it impossible to drive. Something is going terribly wrong inside of him. He abruptly stops the car. Impatient motorists sound their horns and go around him, flashing disdainful stares in his direction as they do so.

Daddy, what’s wrong?

Daddy feels a little strange darling.

He is overcome with panic; a sense of impending doom takes hold of him. He reaches for his mobile phone.

Stay here darling. Stay in the car.

He struggles from the driver’s seat and steps out and on to the central reservation. He calls an ambulance. He tells the operator he is having a heart attack. He becomes unsteady on his feet. He collapses.

 My eyes briefly meet the little girl’s. My heart sinks. I want to leave my car and leap the central reservation and scoop her up in my arms. I want to tell her that her daddy will be fine and she will be fine and he will be waiting for her at the school gates at three fifteen. I want to tear a hole in the fabric of space and time and change everything. I want to place them in a parallel universe where his heart is healthy and strong and she learns about the ancient Egyptians at school and smiles knowingly when she sees the Kit Kat in her lunchbox and thanks him with a kiss on the cheek at the end of the day.

But I can’t do any of that. I’m fucking late. I’m always fucking late.