Career Move

100 mph on I-93 with whiskey in my belly in place of fear.

No worries.

Blue lights flashing behind me cannot catch up.

Not yet.

A situation decades in the making and inevitable.

The black Vette sitting outside the car dealership was the kicker. That and the bonus I got for selling my soul to the highest bidder.

If responsibility was my thing, I would have banked most of the money, maybe bought myself a hat or some blue suede wing tips.

But it is spring, and the day I drove by, gorgeous sun warmth was bouncing off the sleek black hood of this menacing machine. I pulled in like I had been doing it all my life; like spending money was no stress low stress. When I told the smarmy salesman I would be paying cash, he looked at me like I was a Mafioso.

Which made the whole deal taste even better.

My masculinity tripled behind the wheel of that car. I felt invincible. It was a sensation like none I had ever experienced before, and I dug it more than the joy of high quality drugs coursing through my veins.

Trouble did not come with the car. Trouble came with the job.

When I realized exactly what I was trading for that extravagant bonus and enormous salary, I began a slow burn. A slow burn that quickly escalated to raging anger.

Took me 20 years to get to this point. 20 years with no vacations, six and seven day weeks, a foul commitment to ass kissing.

I finally get to rub elbows with the corporate elite, and nothing changes but the money. They wanted more from me than I had left to give.

My gorgeous car was reduced to a mode of transportation. Drive to work, drive home. No babes, no chance to humiliate guys with my success.

A couple of months in, I started leaving after short 10 hour days. Much frowned upon.

Found this beautiful little bar called Eddie's. Not exactly a dive. It had character. I was comfortable there. The kind of bar where I could drink double whiskeys in a no judgement zone.

And the bartender was gorgeous. Ginger. I turned up the charm to take no prisoners level. Still, she seemed more interested in the fifties that rolled out of my pocket than in my classically handsome features.

Could be the twenty year age difference. Hard to believe.

I noticed the cops cruising the parking lot from time to time but didn't really care. I am an excellent drunk driver. Should start a school.

Today was a really bad day at work. Too much faux camaraderie, disingenuous conversation and false enthusiasm. I didn't scream, and I still can't figure out how I avoided that.

A few extra whiskeys at Eddie's, and Ginger's empty flirtation made everything perfect.

I saw the cops sitting there in the parking lot while executing a few missteps towards the Vette. I knew they were waiting for me to turn the key. Challenging me to turn the key.

I did.

They were on my ass thirty seconds out of the parking lot. I was on the highway thirty seconds after that.

And here I am. 100 m.p.h. on I-93 with whiskey in my belly and no fear.

The cops are getting closer.

I am not comfortable at this speed. Right on the edge. Still, no fear. And there is still room between the accelerator and the floor.

I think about my future. I think about the man I have not become.

The pedal touches the floor.

My beautiful black Vette exploded when it hit the concrete pylon. My body was annihilated.

It was the best career move I ever made.