This morning I’m hauling ass across the intersection across from the Krispy Kreme opposite the Kum & Go so I don’t get steamrolled by one of the yokels in their jacked-up pickups when some old lady in a jacked-up pickup swerves across oncoming traffic, throws open her passenger door, calls me honey and hollers for me to get in.
I’m thinking she’s about to say she’s from the FBI and somebody has a hit out on me.
But then she just says, You late to work, honey?
I’m jogging in sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and winter hat. I tell her no I’m just trying not to die. I’m not trying to get anywhere.
It’s kind of sad to see the droopy look on her face when she realizes she doesn’t have to rescue me.
It’s hard not to interpret this in an existential way.
My whole life waiting for someone to rescue me from myself and one day this lady shows up and all she wants to do is make sure I get to a job I don’t have.