“The only thing greater than the unimaginative soul's capacity for doling out criticism is his fervent desire to be taken seriously in doing so.”


I can’t help but see him idling in the left lane; the bright light blazes into my eyes through a hole in his shattered brake light. Snow flurries slow the morning traffic along Route 66 – the sky is low with plump gray clouds sprinkling large flakes of frozen matter onto the faded hood of my ‘97 Corolla.

Today is Monday.

He is to my left, one car-length ahead. The red light freezes our mutually exclusive lives in this unique moment in time. My eyelids are sandpaper; I peer at the outside world, yearning for the warmth of bed. I gaze far into a world of surreal make believe. No one can tear me from my delusion. No euphoria thieves permitted! Ah, but I am thinking this as I am pulled away from a world with fuzzy edges and warm kisses. The soft, inviting bed at which I am gazing slowly becomes the lower-half of a 1978 white-on-brown Chevy Blazer. The puffy white blankets that beckon me to sleep become the Blazer’s dingy top-half. I peer at the windows; the glass is smudged and cold. Through them, I now see the frozen train-tracks and the trees beyond. Reality.

I stare at his silhouette in the driver’s seat. He is white, possibly in his late 40s and slightly overweight. His long thin hair is oily and unkempt; a cigarette dangles from his lower lip as he frantically searches for something next to him, a race against time before the green arrow protects his left turn. Trapped smoke curls and becomes stagnant, frozen in the timelessness of my thoughts.

I imagine his existence as I await my own green light. He lives on the east side of town in a one room apartment illuminated by a single 60-watt bulb. A full-size mattress lies on the floor under a tangle of worn, mismatched sheets. Next to the mattress, a bag of stale Chee-tos and an empty Dr Pepper can he uses as an ashtray. He is divorced and has never spoken to his son, who must be nearly 20 by now. He is alone but refuses to admit this to himself. He is disorganized. He smells of tobacco and sweat. A prominent scar, which he does not discuss, traverses the apple of his cheek. He has a slight beer-belly and wears baggy jeans below its lower circumference. In my mind, his name is Roy and I yearn to experience his simple, lonely life for just one day- this cold, grey day in northern Arizona. Life couldn't be better in a small mountain town in a hidden corner of the American grid.

Our lights turn green and we never meet again.