The stair ways to heaven is paved with road distractions, street furniture, crazy drivers and lethal contraptions for vehicle. I think you know where I am heading with this. But you will see why I am coming straight to the point in a moment or two.
I had received a call on my office line asking when I was going to be home (it was the social worker doing my case). On seeping through my text messages that I had not known I had received, I found the hint that she was going to be “Popping in” to address some matter of extreme importance. I said on the phone that I would be home pretty soon, if she was willing to wait...about twenty minutes give or take a few. She said no worries as she had other matters to see to in my neck of the wood, as it was.
So I made my excuses, my boss frowning with disbelief. I said this was not another stunt that I really had to be home as I was going through the works from my social worker. “The child comes first”, I said, pricking the brute into a sense of guilt. Permission given, I tidied up my desk for the day while my colleagues sniggered with envy that I was leaving early again; and broke out of the office. My beamer was revving by the time I got in and I tore out of the car park with the beast screeching for attention. The CD player had come on, full blast, continuing from the Wacko I had been listening as I drove in that morning. Having had the song in my head the better part of the day, it was no wonder I actually clicked with it and not only let it continue but set to auto repeat. I was raging north as mingled with the mid-day traffic, not much considering the time of day. I only had twenty minutes to make it home, if I was lucky. But with the traffic this sparse, I reckoned I was going to be lucky indeed. I was reaching forty in a thirty zone and by the time I reached a fifty neighbourhood, I was close on sixty.
The road, indeed, was good to me today; I told myself. I thought of a short cut that never failed to bless me and took a turn to make the good luck spiral me into a time warp, hoping I would make it home in fifteen. The road was clear, the normal school children bonking off school were not in sight and the delivery drivers had long expunged their loads on waiting retailers. It was a day of blessing, through and through. I was approaching a set of traffic lights I knew too well and by my timing I should have been able to zoom past before they went amber. But I was still too far away when the colours disappointed me. Well, obviously the timing is different for rush hour and mid day traffic situations, I thought. As I slowed down with another screech, I heard a motorbike zing past me and breaking the barrier with the speed I must exaggerate to be that of lightening. If I had continued, I would just about have made it past the orange, probably not seeing the red. But I had stopped any way, and the biker was gone! In its wake all I could smell was the fumes from the exhaust mingled with the rash mixture of smoke from a cigarette but as it flew off the rider’s lips and hit the tar. The stub was out as it hit the ground, splinters of light breaking into several pieces.
I admired the rider’s courage. Time was when I could easily have done that. But now, with three children and a wife to boot, I was slowing down, I understood what my doctor said about my getting old. Normally, my caution would have been thrown to the wind and I would have dared the stunt without a second thought. The rider had a flaming red leather jacket which clung on like a glove, accentuating the rider’s figure. It was hard to tell which of the sexes it was. The helmet was decaled with flames and the black leather trousers must have taken a while to struggle into. But it made a great fit and I admired the costume. The bike itself commanded its own credibility; heavily built, wide and sturdy, one to make Honda proud. It was a sight to behold.
The biker leaned to the left as it bore that direction, the way I wanted to go, and was out of sight in a flash. It was my turn to be filled with envy. After waiting for an eternity at the lights, the green persuaded me to proceed, and proceed I did. But as I turned the corner, I drove straight into a jam, and boy what a jam. I had cradled the middle lane so could not move left or right. I was stuck in the middle. Ironically, that’s what Wacko was screaming out. I rejoined him and the other drivers turned with scorn and admiration that I would still be playing such a controversial old classic. Well I did not care. I notched it up a peg or two and rolled my windows down, aggravating the enemy and fuelling the admiration equally.
On its second repeat, I felt a bit weird playing the same song on repeat in the middle of the lanes and shuffled for something else. Queen prevailed and I felt like I really wanted to be free. But freedom was a long way from heaven. The music stopped abruptly as my phone stopped the blast and the Bluetooth kicked in on recognition of my voice. It was the social worker! She apologised for keeping me; that she was going to be a little late back to mine. Her case had turned awry and would need her being there a little longer. I said my no worries and got back to my music. Five minutes later, I was still on the same spot and after noticing other drivers ahead of me coming out of their vehicle to comprehend the situation, I switched my engine off. The music I kept the music on, low this time and momentarily the news road traffic report interrupted me for the second time that day. There was no mention of any hold up on my stretch of the road, but we were not going anywhere soon. “Just in” it went, and began to explain how there had been a minor accident which was causing a tailback three miles. As the announcement finished and my music returned, I heard the distant wail of an ambulance. The police were first to squeeze past me, followed closely by the ambulance and another police car. Trust my luck! Heaven was a long way away, no doubt.
“Ma ma se ma ma se ma ma coo sa” returned. I wasn’t even aware that the Jacko tune was playing. My mind was in other places, not here on this tight stretch of road. Suddenly even that was becoming irritating. I trawled through the files looking for something more appropriate for my mood and found nothing. Thanks to a six CD collection and nothing to suit. I scanned the radio stations, talk radio, nothing. Not a thing could hold my attention for even a second. The news was depressing as it was, and the music was no better.
Finally, the vehicles in front began to accelerate, and I switched my engine back on, biding my time for the drivers ahead to get a move on. They were all veering to the right, clearly avoiding some obstruction on the left; it was only when I got closer that I noticed the black and red topped biker lying on the ground, the bike itself half off the road, with another blue car skewed across two lanes. Well, it was right that I stopped, I thought to myself, happy that wisdom was catching up with me. That really could have been me.
The incident played on my mind from the remaining five minutes of my journey. As I was pulling up into my drive, the Social Worker pulled up on the other side of the road. But as she droned on about there being a mistake in my filling some form or another, all I could think about was how I had escaped death, or the semblance of it. She wanted me to answer one of the tricky questions I had not realised was applicable to me on one of the check forms. That done she was gone and I was left to brood for the rest of the day. I had been on that road, made the same journey on numerous occasions and it had taken me no more than twenty-five minute. This day was the exception. I had spent an extra hour on a three hundred metre stretch and my life suddenly felt stilted.
As I sat on my armchair, listening to my heart heave silently, I wondered why I had not received the message. My finger flapped through the day’s post and what would I find but the same letter the Social Worker had sent to me post marked three days prior. While I felt like baling the post office for not delivering on time, I imagined that their drivers would be going through the same anxiety as I did, that one thing or another would have made it practically impossible for that piece of mail to reach me at least two day earlier. That way I would have been prepared, I would somehow, not have had to witness that accident or the biker riding past. I would not have had to ask my boss in the heat of the moment to be excused only to return home to feed the Social Worker an answer I could have easily given them on the phone.
