The Commute From Hell

My commute sucks. In a good week, I spend eight hours behind the wheel driving to and from work. In a bad week I can spend as much as 15 hours riding the brakes while staring at the bumper in front of me.

At the office, I never complain about my commute. Partly that’s because I’m the strong silent type, but mostly it’s because my colleagues do my bellyaching for me. They never tire of poking their heads in my office and, in voices oozing pity and concern, asking me how I’m handling my commute from hell.

I always tell them it’s fine, no big deal, but they don’t believe me. They know it sucks. They know I know it sucks. They even know I won’t admit it sucks. So why do they ask? My misery makes them feel better about their own lousy commutes, knowing I have it worse.

It’s a public service I’m happy to provide, what with the relief I feel at night with each mile I put between me and the office, easing the tension and cleansing my mind of the day’s pollution, until driving up my driveway I peer down from my perch high on the hill and remind myself, surveying the city lights flickering far off in the distance in an abstract pointillistic landscape of unreality, that I am, indeed, here and not there.

For some reason, they never ask why I chose this commute from hell. Perhaps they know.