the morning commute. the evening commute. the morning commute. the evening commute. you develop a pattern. drive to work. you start to recognize patterns. drive back home. you know just when to leave the apartment to get to work on time. heading south. you know just when you want to leave work to beat the homebound rush. heading north. 7:26am. the morning x or morning edition or a random cd. 4:51pm. all things considered or 640am or a random cd. and you do it everyday.
and sometimes you are rewarded for your routine. the other morning, probably thursday, and i am driving south on ga 400. i had an early start, so the road was clearer than usual, with more spaces between the cars and the allowance of a decent clip. in my rear-view mirror, i spot him. it looks like an eighties era nissan. the boxy kind, built like a volvo but somehow lacking any and all prestige. and what i notice is the way it’s rolling. the rear end of the car is almost scraping the asphalt, just a good pothole away from sending sparks after the cars behind. what the heck is he hauling, i wonder? cigarette smoke is billowing from his driver-side window as he creeps up alongside me. plastic bags. white. filling the car from stem to stern, leaving only enough room for the driver and completely blocking his rear window. is it trash? or… maybe he’s moving. perhaps he has been kicked out of the house, everything he owns in glad kitchen bags, his mad as hell wife standing and steaming in the doorway with their two kids and one on the way. could it be a life’s collection of aluminum cans? no. wrong on all counts…
phone books. he’s that guy. the unseen fellow that drops off your new sack-of-yellow-pages. few people notice him, but i have. and let me tell you, he is risking his neck and the necks of everyone around him, just to deliver five pounds of bound listings to your home and mine.
… and to bring a welcome change into my routine.
