Drt (2 page)

I finished my report and removed my headphones. I picked up the phone and dialed a number I knew by heart.
 

“Montgomery County Police,” said a familiar voice.
 

“Sargeant Conroy.”

“Hey Greg, we don’t have anything working right now.”

“Good to hear.”
 

“Hope you had a good weekend.”
 

“I did,” I said, even though it wasn’t true. “How was yours?”

“Good. My son brought his wife over and we fired the grill up.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, his wife does a nice marinade.”
 

“Great. Have a nice morning, Sargeant.”
 

“You bet.”

I hung up, and leaned back into my chair. I thought about the dead air incident earlier. As far as mistakes go on the air, it was a major one. I tried to think about something else, but it was impossible. I was too busy kicking myself. I couldn’t believe I made such a mistake, falling asleep on the air. I even left the mic open which meant they heard me stir, heard me come awake. Live. I was glad that I hadn’t said anything embarrassing.
 

All I had was my job, so getting fired was my worst fear. No one ever wants to be unemployed, because you don’t know how long it will be before you work again. I don’t care how mentally strong you think you are, the act of being unemployed can destroy anyone given enough time.

I imagined how it would happen. Bob Creasey would call me into his office. I would sit there and he would tell me. Tell me he is letting me go. I will walk out of the office and no one will make eye contact. Every person I pass will stare at the ground, the occasional ‘I’m so sorry’ in a hoarse whisper that no one will hear because the second the door closes behind me they will obsequiously and profusely agree with the powers that be, telling them what a great idea it was to finally get rid of Greg because they never liked him anyway. I imagined being unemployed, laying on my bed for one more month in the blazing heat because I couldn’t afford air conditioning, sweating and petrified while I fill out applications with a quaking hand. A month later I will be evicted and a parade of men with strong backs will carry my belongings to the corner and set them there for the garbage man and I will pick through the pile, wondering what I can keep now that I have no place to go, no shelter, no roof over my head, no place to lay down, no place to sit, no place to close my eyes, and I pick through my pile of things by the street, with people looking at me in sorrow, they try to avert their gaze but they stare at the man who has nothing, trying to find something to carry, something to carry somewhere but nowhere and I will finally find myself in a shelter, laying on a dirty mattress on a wire cot in a room with dozens of other people, the humid air in the room hangs stale and unmoving, the fat drops of humidity grip the sour smell in the room, the odor a combination of Fritos and stomach bile, bile that was spit up by the man lying in the cot next to me who slept wine laden on his back, wine laden to the point of asphyxiation, the rattling gurgle in his throat still echoing in my ears as I take deep breaths of humid air, my hand in my pocket making thumb circles on the last fold of my cash, hoping, praying, pleading, that this is enough money to make my purchase, my final purchase from a large Hispanic man with a greasy mullet and greasy hands, who keeps calling me “Homes”, a purchase that will in and of itself be a door, a door out of the hell that my life has become, and before I put my purchase in my mouth, I will think about this day, the day that I fell asleep on the air, when everything changed, I just shouldn’t have sat in that chair, that comfy chair, if I had just gotten up, sat in the uncomfortable chair instead, I wouldn’t have slept, I wouldn’t be living in a homeless shelter listening to men drown in their vomit and that wouldn’t be the last sound I linger on as I taste the metal in my mouth and pull the-

“It’s 2:18.”

I caught my breath and tried to regain my composure, fumbling for the headphones in my lap, but my hands weren’t working. The twin speakers on the headset had already sounded the chime for me to begin. The music bed for my talk over was playing, but my voice wasn’t in the speakers.
 

“Greg?”

I leaned forward and started answering, “Yes, Veronica. On the Capital Beltway, no delays through Montgomery County, things look good through College Park. No problems across the Wilson Bridge-”

“Greg.”

“Can you hear me Veronica?” I asked as I finally pulled the headphones on. My voice still wasn’t in the speakers. I looked down at the board; I forgot to turn on the microphone. My hand shot to the button on the console.

Too late. “Well we are going to see if we can find Greg in the traffic center and get that traffic report to you soon.”

The phone rang and I picked it up with full knowledge of who was on the other end, “Traffic Center.”
 

“You have failed us for a…uh…again,” said the producer with unmistakable delight. “I am going to have to call Bob immediately.” He hung up.
 

I sat frozen with the phone pressed to my ear. Two problems, it had been years since I had any at all. That night, I had two. I agonized about getting fired for one. Now two…

The phone rang, “Traffic Center.”

“Greg? It’s Bob. What’s going on in there?” he sounded like he had been roused from a deep sleep.
 

“I made a mistake.”
 

“We can’t have mistakes, Greg. We are the traffic authority for the nation’s capital.”

“I swear it won’t happen again.”

“It better not. I need to see you today, Greg. Be in my office at 3PM,” said Bob. He hung up without waiting for a reply.

I stood silently with the phone in my shaking hand for a minute, before I slowly laid the piece of plastic back in the cradle.
 

I sat at my terminal for the rest of the night. I didn’t dare move. The station kept calling me right before I went on the air to confirm that I was ready to go, humiliating. This went on for almost three more hours.
 

Finally at 5AM, it was shift change. The morning crew were the stars of the operation, they did live traffic for TV and radio stations during the coveted “Morning Drive” time slot. A few of them had their own studios filled with bright lights and floral arrangements. I heard and saw them walking through, like they did every day, faces pancaked with makeup and silent against the beeps and the bloops of the scanners and ringing phones. The morning radio traffic anchors started showing up and ducked into cubicled terminals on the far side of the wall.
 

I stood up, wished a good day to everyone, and as always, no one responded. I walked with heavy feet out of the studio toward the elevators. I had no way of knowing what Bob was going to do and 10 hours to torment myself with how I was going to deal with whatever his decision might be.
 

I got onto the elevator and pushed the button. I descended to the lobby, a giant shining cave of reflected light and marble, walked past the sleeping security guard, and pushed through the revolving door to the outside.

I felt awful on my way to the parking garage, my stomach turned and churned until I almost threw up on the sidewalk.

3

I pushed the brake down when I got in front of home, pulled the key from the ignition, and opened the door.
 

The sun had begun to rise and its radiation peaked from behind the horizon, splashing blue and orange onto the expanse of sky. I rounded the rear of the car, lifted my foot over the curb, and stepped in the moist grass. The drive usually took forty minutes, pedestrian by DC standards. An hour from now poor souls would be trapped in coffins of metal and glass that inched along highways, heading to their government or nonprofit or media or lobbying or other jobs that forced them to dress in business casual or formal attire far too uncomfortable for their travel time. Only the upper crust could afford to live near the place they worked.
 

I lived in a rented room in Haymarket, Virginia. Homeowners often decided to rent out a room in their house, a relatively common and easy way to make money in the metro DC area. Usually these arrangements ended in huffy litigation and destroyed property. I went through a series of rooms that weren’t properly permitted, often ending in my meager belongings being thrown into a rented van while the police served the summons.

 
This particular room, walled away and given an outside door with a key, had been home for four years. The family on the other side of the wall was quiet during the day, and I was gone at night. It was a nice situation, one that I had spent almost ten years moving around trying to find. It would be a shame to be evicted after tomorrow.
 

I walked across the lawn to the door, the morning air perfumed faintly with wet grass and breakfast. The seal on the door broke with a gentle chuff and I was home.
 

 
The door barely missed the bed as it opened. On the far side of the room (which was only two feet from the end of the bed) my dresser was pushed to the wall, my small TV rested on top. To the right of the dresser was a chest of drawers, under the bed was a rug, and that was all of the room. The floor was hard wood, slick with finish. Maybe a veal calf would consider it spacious, but no human could really get comfortable. You’ve probably seen bigger closets.

There was a tiny bathroom attached. Your feet landed squarely in the shower if you sat on the toilet. There was a sink smeared with toothpaste, but no mirror above it. I removed it the day I got the keys. You could still see where the screws had been anchored in the wall.
 

I rolled onto the bed and thumbed on the TV. I drew my legs to my chest, knowing sleep would be a challenge.
 

The sun poked through the slats of the blinds. The TV murmured about the weather and things that were happening somewhere else. I needed distractions. My stomach was sick with worry. I couldn't help but feel that maybe last night I had finally committed the error that would be my doom. Everything I had worked for could be gone.

All I had was my job. You might think that’s sad or indicative of an underlying problem, but it was the truth. The thought of losing the job made me miserable but it’s not like my life was happy before then either. You don’t want to think about this stuff right before you go to sleep, but this is how it goes.
 

My parents died decades ago, which hadn’t mattered since I didn’t have much of a relationship with them to begin with. Death changed little. I remember I was hungry a lot as a kid, not with desire or drive but actual hunger from lack of food. Dad was never around and when he was, he was drunk. Mom always needed someone to blame for Dad’s absence and alcoholism, and that blame fell on me.

 
The memory from childhood that lingers is mom screaming at me, blaming me for Dad not coming home. She often told stories about how Dad never wanted children. When asked, Dad never refuted the claim. He had apparently gotten a vasectomy not long after the second month of her pregnancy.

My mother told me for years that my father's absence, and his need to imbibe alcohol, was all because he was disappointed in his son.
 

“You're not good at anything,” she said, “Do you know how hard that is for a father, to realize his son has no talent, nothing special about him? Greg honey, I need you to be better at something. So your father won't be so sad about you, blame me for giving birth to you.”
 

Her voice came to me often, especially when I didn’t want to hear it, and I really didn’t want to hear it on a day when my fate would be handed to me in twelve hours.

I pressed my eyes closed and shoved myself into the mattress. Working overnights is an exercise in learning how to sleep when you need it. You have to be able to put yourself down. I would tense myself into the mattress then release, as the tension wore off I would often go unconscious. This usually worked really well.
 

I tensed, released, and closed my eyes tight. There was a moment of stillness; I listened to the turn of the air conditioner, purring from the window only inches from my head. I slowed my breathing and felt myself drift.
 

I was on a plane. I felt the armrests on either side. I always know when I’m dreaming. The lights were dim, most of the shades drawn. Several of the passengers snored slightly in an upright position; their mouths hung open from a combination of Xanax and alcohol. I’m always jealous of people who sleep on planes, even if it’s chemically induced. The plane bubbled up and down, slight turbulent bumps in the road.
 

I sat next to the window, in the dream, and I slid the shade up. I was just behind the wing, the engines whined efficiently outside the ice cold glass. There were lights in the distance, the grid ended just a little in front of my line of sight. We’re flying low, I thought. I looked at the man sitting next to me. He was thin and had curly black hair that parted down the middle. He wore a grimy leather jacket. He pushed his tray table to the upright position and looked me in the face with a knowing smile.
 

“This plane is going to crash,” he said.

“I know.”
 

The man turned his whole body to me, looking interested. “How did you know that, Greg?”

“I’ve had this dream before.”
 

“Not bad, Greg,” he said, with a laugh. “You always impress me.”

“This plane isn’t usually so packed, though, and you’re not usually here.”

“Well, variety is the spice of life, ain’t it?”
 

“It is. But this is a bad dream. I hate this dream,” I said. My mouth tasted like iron. I spat into my hand. A spatter pattern of blood appeared in my palm and one of my teeth bounced on the soft skin.

“Wow, Greg, you got some teeth coming out there. Does that always happen?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re missing a shoe, too. Does that always happen?”