The Mood

This is fiction. Nothing in this story actually happened to me, or anyone I know.

The sun burned through a pillowed cloud, revealing a red aura of perfect circumference around itself. It was a bright light, and, like life, it was all ahead of me. I broke from my reverie just in time to see a black Mercedes, E-class, cutting me off.

But I remained optimistic. It was the kind of day where you can't sleep in because you’re too excited about a dream you had. But that doesn't mean I'd slept enough. I'd still had to drag my tired body with its eager mind into the shower. However, after neatly toweling off, brushing my hair and teeth, and slapping on cologne, a gift from my dad, I felt alive and awake, thriving, as I made myself an eye-appeasing breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee.

Halfway to school­, I said what would become my motto that day, "Fuck it!", and stayed on the highway, heading anywhere but school. It could wait. After all, I'd waited for it to end for 11 years, only to find out it didn't intend to stop there, after my senior year. I'd been "accepted" to college, "my dream school," but unless my parents’ dreams were mine, that was a lie.

My dream was scholarly, but not one that required the oversight of an overpaid professor. I was going to be an ethical journalist. I had no interest in being some stick-up-my-ass ideologue, on duty, ready to exploit.

That wasn't me and never would be.

I'm different, but not the "turn your head and stare" kind, nor the, "this guy would make a great character in a book" sort. I'm just different from my typical peer. My nose is un-pierced, my past is clean, and I prefer a good book or talking with a friend to a night out.

Well, that's not exactly true. I don't really talk with friends. But that's because chatter, while of interest in real time, isn't actually more entertaining than a good read. But I will admit that every once-in-a-while, a sensational conversation will put me in the mood.

You know what I mean. The mood we're all searching for, the one where your mind doesn't wander, where everything feels so good you dread its end, because life in any other mood is awful when you compare it to that feeling.

The mood is natural, but hard to maintain. Some find it, briefly, in drugs, others say love gets you there, and gurus promote meditation. But I refuse to believe in a fountain or grail for finding the mood. It comes and goes, and I try my best to take what I can from what it gives me.

My point is that the mood inspires many to write the great book from the tip of their tongue. The mood induces romantic love. The mood is what makes you laugh when nothing is funny. And the mood is what justified cutting school that day.

II. Aggressive Drivers, Bad News.

That wasn't the Black Mercedes' last hurrah. It cut me off two more times, until I became obsessed, now following it as it danced and darted in and out of lanes, oblivious to boundaries.

Speeding, trailing, and studying this curious vessel, I didn't take offense each ensuing time it cut me off to stay ahead. I stayed alert and calm, passing it to see how I'd get cut off again. Eventually, my excitement staled, another sign of my adolescence draining, so I signaled to exit.

As I merged right across six lanes, the Mercedes tried to cut me off one more time but instead of allowing it to narrowly miss me, I pushed my luck and its right rear bumper hit the front left light of my car.

I swerved to avoid further damage, but hit a car in my blind spot, a red Toyota, and I grinned as I imagined the Mercedes's driver paying for our damages. However, when the Toyota and I slowed to pull over, that E-Class bastard hit the gas and left us in the dust. I wanted to give chase, but my sense of ethics made me pull over with the Toyota, which was missing its right-side mirror. At least this wasn't their first accident, so he'd know what to do.

I was correct. It was not his first accident. It was her first accident.

She was short, or at least appeared so, because I'm tall, with her hair in a bun with bleached streaks that kissed her ashen cheeks, half-flushed from embarrassment.

Her eyes were innocent, yet also conniving, stabbing, pleading, looking for someone to blame for this unfortunate accident but that didn't stop me from noticing her white blouse, tucked into a long skirt as she walked around her car to wait in safety with me.

When she spoke, I realized I loved her.

"Do you have insurance?"

You’re beautiful, I thought. But I'm not smooth, so I mumbled something inaudible. thanks to speeding cars.

"Can I see your license, please?"