Have an Hour to get home. If you/he/she doesn’t make it…
Bob walked from the drab office building, a gray and dull factory that cranks out non stop boredom and suicidal thoughts. He anxiously looked at his car, equally gray, and equally boring. It was fuel efficient, comfortable, held his small family, but most of all, it was cheap. He could afford it, and still afford to provide his children with the necessary tools they needed in order to become spoiled self-serving entitled little shits. He opened the door to the car, glancing at his watch as he did. He didn’t need the time, it was just habit. He knew that it was 4:58 PM. It was always 4:58 PM. Every day, when he grabbed that car door. He could set a clock by the stifling routine that had become his life.
How is this what I have become? Bob thought. As he pulled himself into his car, starting the engine, he thought back to his youth. He thought back to before he was simply a middle-aged dad. He had been somebody once. He had a life of his own, and found it much easier to accomplish his goals.
The engine started, and the gauges came to life. The gas gauge read quarter of a tank. It was Thursday. The gas gauge ALWAYS read quarter of a tank on Thursday. Bob knew he would need to stop to get gas. Normally the commute took 45 minutes with traffic. Getting gas would add 10-15 minutes on top of that. The Thursday Power Hour. That’s what Bob had called it.
He pulled from the parking lot and began the commute. Street lights and signs waved to him as he drove down the street, joggers and fitness enthusiasts sweating on the sidewalks, their headphones creating a sort of barrier to shield them from the outside world.
The drive continued on in pained silence. Bob didn’t play music during his drives. He typically sat in silence. Between the constant drone of the office, and the horrific bullshit that constantly erupted from the mouths of his children, his commute was the only quiet time he would get in a day. it was his only peace. The only time in his day in which he could sit and regret his life decisions.
The gas stationed loomed ahead. Bob hated the gas station. Really, he hated what it did to his day. It interrupted his drive, adding time to an already long commute, and broke up his silent sadness. He pulled in, and walked inside.
“Hey, Bob” The cashier greeted him. He came here often enough that the staff knew him.
“Hey,” Bob replied, walking to the cooler in the back. The one solace the gas station did have was that they sold beer, and Bob enjoyed a Thursday road beer on his way home. It was the one thing he had in his life that disrupted routine, and was even remotely dangerous. As he reached into the cooler, he noticed a man standing next to him eyeing various bottles of soda.
He looked about Bob’s age, but was lean, instead of the paunchy dad-bod Bob had been working on over the last few years. Bob had worked out, sure, but a ever-increasing intake of beer had started to give him a thick midsection to go with his thick everything else. He had graying hair that was a bit more salt than pepper, and it was neatly cut, and was fairly short. But what made him stand out the most was his tailored suit. It looked well-fitted and expensive. This was not the normal attire for those in this neighborhood. Bob eyed him speculatively, curious who this stranger was, and what he was doing.
The extremely handsome man glanced over at Bob, smiling and nodding.
“You live around here?” he asked. It was an odd question, made odder by his commanding tone and presence.
“Yeah,” Bob had responded, feeling a bit confused at this point.
“Right on. I’m at pump 7. I’d like to get some directions and recommendations once you’re all done. Google says a lot. But I try not to rely on the Skyenet Overlords if I don’t have to.” He smiled as he said it, but his tone was dry.
“Sure,” Bob replied. “I’m actually right next to you on 8. Let me pay and I’ll be right out.”
“Excellent.” The stranger stood there for a minute, looking through the cooler, and Bob went and paid. He glanced over to check for the other man, but the corner of the store was now empty.
Bob walked out to his car. He had wondered if he made the whole interaction up in his mind. Had he experienced the pain and suffering so long that his mind was now constructing new friends to help him feel better?
Bob pumped his gas, and as he finished he noticed the man from the store walking up to him.
“Oh, hey,” Bob said. At least he wasn’t crazy.
The man smiled, his face taking on a wolfish quality. He reached into his fitted jacket, drawing a black semi-automatic from it.
“Is this a joke?” Bob asked, his face flashing both confusion and fear.
“No Joke, Bob. Your wife sent me. Wanted me to tell you that you won’t be home for dinner.
The gun flashed, then banged, and searing pain tore through Bob for just a brief moment. Soon after he was lying on the pavement, blood pooling around his body.
Sorry for the all-to-brief ending to this. I had realized I needed to wrap up, as I am on vacation and have an itinerary to follow. Thanks for reading with me though!
Chris