The Fog

The fog.

The filmy blanket muffled sound, dampened windows and refused to leave right away. Even when the sun stumbles up out of bed, driving in it was never fun. Even worse in rush traffic, but the kicker was the people with lead feet and no sleep. Like me. I stay in the median, waiting for a break in traffic. I wanted to cross the street, and get to work. I’m running late.

Zoom. Zip. Whoosh.

“What is this,” I think, “NASCAR tryouts?”

A car blazes by, inches from my pickup’s nose, riding the line and rocking my little Ford with only his Doppler shift. Finally, a break. I saw no headlights on the road, finally. I look at the dash mounted clock and grimace. Twelve minutes to be standing at the time clock to punch in, or I would be late.

I ease off my brakes and pull out onto the road. Only to slam back onto my brakes, very quickly. Materializing out of the fog, side by side, a custom van and a lifted F250 with mud grippers! No headlights on either! They blaze past me into the qualifying lap of their little minds, with only the twinkle of chrome and the roar of engines to mark the winning lap.

I sit, shaking in anger and the accompany grip of the fear stoked adrenaline rush, cursing the damn-fool drivers wouldn’t recognize a headlight switch if it bit them. And the fog laughs at me, as I finally cross the street. It sneaks away on its little cat feet, and is gone when I get to work.

I hate fog.