"Getting Your Ass Kicked on Route 636" by Johnny Ostentatious

“Ahhhhh!”

Gina Beck jumped out of bed. She banged into her chest of drawers. The room was dark, which made sense, since it was three o’clock in the morning.

Gina fumbled around for the light switch, rubbing her elbow where it had hit the chest of drawers. She flicked the switch. The overhead light blinked on.

Rubbing her eyes, Gina couldn’t believe a nightmare forced her to jump out of bed. That had never happened to her before. Not even when she had all of those bad dreams after her father divorced her mom.

The nightmare that just woke her up had something to do with a highway. . . . An accident, maybe? All Gina could remember was a blurring of asphalt and expressway signs. The nightmare was fading faster than a transient resentment.

Now wide-awake, Gina did what any workaholic would do. She hopped on the computer.

* * *

A few hours later, Gina exited her red Mustang. Tote bag in tow, she marched across the parking lot. The heels of her red pumps clopped on the asphalt, echoing. It was 7 A.M. Like every morning, she was the first to arrive at the office.

Gina reached the side entrance. From her purse, she pulled out her security card and inserted it into a slot next to the handle of the glass door. The slot in the wall swallowed up the card and a light above the slot chimed from red to green. Gina opened the now unlocked glass door. Inside, the door closed behind her. She picked up her security card. It hung halfway out of the inside slot.

Head down like a soldier marching into battle, Gina headed to her office. She turned on her overhead light—it flickered for the first minute—and placed her tote bag on her desk.

Gina’s office was small and mostly barren. The walls were painted white and it had a drop ceiling and grey carpet. The only other items here, besides the desk, were a filing cabinet and a bulletin board. Unlike most white-collar workers, Gina had no pictures of family or friends on her desk or walls. But she did have on her bulletin board a picture of Martha Stewart.

Knock-knock.

Gina looked up. In the doorway stood Ted Manner, her boss. He held a black leather suitcase and wore his usual attire, a three-piece custom-made suit.

“Good morning, Gina.”

“Hello, Mr. Manner.”

“How are your cats doing?” he asked in his British accent.

“Fine, fine. No complaints.”

“Good. Listen, we’re going to move that meeting on the 636 project up to this morning.”

“This morning?” Gina said, doing her best to keep the shock out of her voice.

“Yes.” Mr. Manner straightened his tie.

“But it’s not scheduled until next . . .” Gina glanced at her desk calendar. “. . . Thursday.”

“I know but a lot of the principals won’t be here next week. I’ll be on holiday, and Mike Crocetta and Leo Otero will be flying out on Monday to the Omaha office; they both won’t be getting back until late Wednesday. It would be too much of an inconvenience for them to come in here first thing on Thursday morning, so I told them to take a half-personal day and don’t come in until the afternoon.”

“We could reschedule for Thursday afternoon or the following week, after you get back.”

Mr. Manner shook his head primly. “The conference room is booked up that week with meetings on next year’s budget, and we need to make a decision ASAP on the 636 project.”

“But—”

Mr. Manner walked away, saying over his shoulder, “See you at nine, darling.”

Gina formed fists. She hated being called darling. As a teenager, that was what her father had called her when at the last minute he cancelled their monthly get-togethers.

Blood began dripping from Gina’s right palm. She quit making fists. The blood stopped trickling from her hands. Tears filled her eyes. No! She was not going to cry. Business executives did not act like emotional schoolgirls. They were professionals who completed their assigned tasks.

Gina left her office. Five minutes later, she was outside, leaning against the building, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. In the distance, behind a condominium, loomed Route 636.

* * *

At the meeting, Gina gave her presentation in front of a dozen executives on why the company should end construction of Route 636. The contract with the state had a clause in it that allowed the company, at a certain juncture, to continue construction or pull out completely. That juncture was now.

Using the overhead projector, Gina displayed charts and data to support her position. She knew half the room wasn’t paying attention. Holding a meeting first thing in the morning, let alone on a Monday morning, was the worst time you could ask for. Everybody’s attention was elsewhere, namely in bed. Which was why it did not surprise Gina when halfway through the meeting she heard Mr. Manner snoring. Nevertheless, she plodded on. She had the impression that the executives who were awake understood if the company withdrew from the 636 project they would have more resources and capital to devote to the profitable market of tearing down colonial buildings in Center City Philadelphia and creating parking lots. At least with parking lots, the company would receive money from charging cars to park there. But with 636, the income was from the state for building it. Since it wasn’t a toll road, nobody earned a cent after construction was complete.

At 9:30, Leo Otero turned on the lights. Gina flicked off the projector and collected her transparencies. Most of the executives around the rectangular oak table yawned, hands over their mouths.

“Well,” Mr. Manner said, rubbing his eyelids, “that was an . . . interesting proposal. Slightly flawed in its execution, but otherwise I believe it has merit. We’ll have to perform some market research, of course, but we may be on to something.”

Gina blushed.

“Thank you, Gina,” Mr. Manner said, rising, not making eye contact. “Mike, Leo, please join me in my office.”

The two henchmen trailed on the heels of the CEO, all three eager to snort the cocaine off Manner’s desk.

* * *

A month later, Gina was in the office late one night. She shut down her computer, packed up her things and turned off her office light. She didn’t have one foot in the hallway when she realized the fountain soda she drank with her fast-food dinner had already descended to her bladder, itching to burst out. Placing her tote bag on her chair and leaving the light off, Gina jogged down the hall.

In the ladies restroom, Gina stepped into a stall and saw that building management had moved the dispenser of paper toilet-seat covers up higher, out of reach. Gina went into another stall and saw the same thing. It must have to do with all the new safety regulations the township is imposing on us, she thought. But try as she might, Gina could not fathom how moving the dispenser a foot higher made the stalls safer.

Frowning, Gina locked the stall door, then closed the toilet lid and stepped on it. Her hand was about to pull out a paper cover from the dispenser when she heard the restroom door slam open. In came giggling voices. Gina would have went on with her business, but one of the two people spoke in a British accent. Mr. Manner.

“Come here, you sexy little thing,” Mr. Manner said. The woman laughed, followed by the echoing sounds of slurping kissing.

The woman asked, “Are you sure nobody’s here?”

“Positive,” Mr. Manner said. “All the lights are out.”

“OK.”

Gina knew who the woman was. Susan Hardy from accounting. Susan was the gossiping grapevine of the company. Gina always wondered who Susan’s source was. Wonder no more.

Gina peeked through a crack in the stall. Susan and Mr. Manner continued to French kiss; they began fondling one another. It surprised Gina that Mr. Manner was having an affair with Susan. Sure, Mr. Manner’s infidelity was legendary in the industry. But Susan? She just did not seem his type. Even though she looked like a 40-year-old Katie Holmes, she was still frumpier than an academic librarian.

Between breathless kisses, Susan asked, “So tell me, what’s up with the 636 project?”

Mr. Manner was licking Susan’s neck. “It’s nothing,” he said. “We’re pulling out of the project, and it doesn’t appear that the road is going to be completed because all the companies involved in the bidding process are demanding more money than what we were charging. In addition, the highway isn’t a priority for the incoming governor.”

Susan unzipped Mr. Manner’s pants. “Are we going to be out of work?” she asked.

“No. And even if I dissolved the company, I’d take care of you, darling.”

“How?”

“Like this.”

Gina groaned mentally.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Gina was in her Mustang and on her way home. Fortunately for Gina and her bladder, Mr. Manner, in the area of lovemaking, was a sprinter and not a long-distance runner.

Driving but unaware of her surroundings, Gina thought about the presentation she gave a month ago. She was astonished Mr. Manner took her suggestion. After all, she wasn’t nearly as prepared as she could have been. But she must have done something right if construction on Route 636 was going to come to a complete stop.

Snapping out of her reverie, Gina realized she had drifted onto Route 636. How did that happen?

The Mustang drove at 40 miles per hour. Gina was the only one on this godforsaken highway. Clucking her tongue, she contemplated making a U-turn and riding up the shoulder to the nearest entrance ramp.

“What the—!”

Gina coasted around a bend and stamped the brake. Her Mustang’s tires screeched, the rear fishtailing slightly. The car came to a stop.

Ahead was a stream of cars. They seemed to stretch into infinity.

“You got to be kidding me,” Gina said through clenched teeth.

The traffic jam moved slower than a T Rex after feasting on a brontosaurus.

Gina popped the glovebox and pulled out her lighter and a pack of Lucky Strike. She lit one up and glanced in the rearview mirror. Countless vehicles idled behind her.

“Beautiful,” Gina said, smoke exiting her mouth and nose. She cracked her window. Cigarette smoke wisped out.

Two minutes later, Gina smoked the cigarette down to the filter. She moved for another one but stopped. Her mouth opened. The cigarette butt, no longer lit, dropped from her lips to her lap.

It couldn’t be, could it? Gina shook her head to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. Nope, they were still there.

The cars parked in front of Gina were all Mustangs. Red Mustangs.

“Oh my God.”

Gina stared into her rearview mirror. She couldn’t tell if the vehicles behind her were red Mustangs as well—too much headlight glare—but she could tell they were all cars.

Gina put her Ford in park, took her foot off the brake, rolled down her window and stuck her head out. An immense wave of nausea hit her. They were red Mustangs behind her, but even worse, each driver stuck their head out the window, too!

Gina felt her stomach muscles spasm. Not only did the other drivers mimic her motions, but they also had the same hair as her. Blond, shoulder-length and permed.

Gina swung around. She looked ahead. Those drivers mimicked her movements as well. Like the drivers behind her, she couldn’t see their faces. Although, with these drivers, it didn’t have to do with blinding light glare. She couldn’t see their faces because all she saw was the back of their heads.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Gina ducked back inside her car and rolled up the window with such ferocity that when it was all the way up, her hand flew off the handle and slapped the steering wheel, then her chest. It stung but she ignored it.

I’m going to open my eyes and everything will be fine. OK? OK. Let’s count to three. One . . . two . . . three.

Gina opened her eyes. The Mustangs were still there.

“Damn,” she whispered.

After a few moments of not moving, Gina decided to perform a little experiment. She brought her right hand up to head level and stretched her arm across the front seat. The other drivers did the same.

A shaking fit overcame Gina. She covered her face with her hands. Her lacrimal glands worked on creating tears, but they never make it to her eyelashes.

The radio turned on. From the speakers blared “Hotel California” by The Eagles. The dial read 636 AM. Gina attempted to turn the radio off but none of the buttons worked. WHY WOULDN’T IT TURN OFF! God, she hated this song. Her father had hummed it after he announced at Gina’s eleventh birthday party that he was divorcing her mom.

Suddenly, the song stopped, right before the epic guitar solo.

“Finally,” Gina muttered.

She looked up.

The copycat Mustangs were gone.

She whipped around.

None behind her either.

A voice in her head shouted: GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

Gina didn’t debate the issue. She put the Mustang in drive and stamped the gas pedal. The V-8 engine whirred to life. Gina gripped the steering wheel. The Mustang shot down the highway as if late for a NASCAR race. The dashboard vents were open. Gina smelled skunk. No time to close the vents. Keep your eyes on the road.

The Mustang approached a sharp bend. Gina tapped the brake as lightly as possible. Can’t waste too much time. Coming around the bend, Gina saw a highway sign. It was the green kind with white border and lettering. The sign took up two lanes and hung overhead from a large iron pole grounded into the grass between the northbound and southbound lanes. The sign stated I-95 was one mile away.

“Yes!” Gina said, fully aware that she was talking to herself far too much this evening. It was OK, given the circumstances.

Gina did not look at the speedometer, but she figured she had to be going at least 80. She approached another green-and-white overhead sign. This one stated that I-95 was only a half-mile away.

Gina slammed on the brakes.

The overhead sign was swooping down towards the Mustang. No time to swerve out of the way; the sign was too big. Gina clutched the steering wheel at arms length. In a green-and-white blur, the sign smashed into the Mustang’s hood and front windshield. Gina let go of the steering wheel. Foot still on the brake, she threw her hands in front of her face. Windshield glass flew inside the Mustang. She felt shards of glass stab her hair, and would have picked them out, except the green-and-white sign had hit the Mustang so hard, the Ford was now somersaulting through the air. The rear of the car had left the ground first. Gina imagined it hurdling over the sign that attacked her.

Finally, the Mustang returned to the ground, landing on its wheels. Disoriented, Gina rolled around in the front seat. She couldn’t tell where her car had landed. Only one way to find out.

Shaking, Gina reached for the door handle. The door was stuck. She pushed against it with her shoulder. That didn’t work, so she gave it a push and a kick. It opened.

Gina stepped out of the car and onto grass. She laughed. She couldn’t believe her Mustang had somersaulted through the air from one side of the highway to the other.

Creaking.

Gina turned to examine the green-and-white overhead sign that had assaulted her. Like when it had struck that blow to her Mustang, its pole was in the median grass. But it now twisted around. Staring at her? If so, it did it menacingly, the top of the sign tipped forward. The gesture reminded Gina of a belligerent, presbyopic uncle tilting his head down, looking over the rim of his glasses.

Limping backwards, Gina moved away from the malicious glare. She eventually turned around, not because she wanted to (she didn’t trust that overhead sign to stay in place), but because she had to look at where she was going. She was entering crabgrass land, where one wrong step would guarantee a sprained ankle.

Up ahead was I-95. In front of Gina was the back of a triangular sign. Probably a yield sign. She wasn’t sure because she was limping north on this southbound roadside.

Gina froze.

The sign turned around. It’s perforated pole stayed in the ground but the actual sign now faced Gina. It was a yield sign, and the sign moved up and down, as if a face that was inspecting her.

Gina hugged herself. The yield sign stopped studying her and turned around to its normal position.

Nibbling on a hangnail, Gina contemplated what to do. Should she stay on the grass and go around the yield sign? Or should she step on the asphalt to reach her salvation of I-95? Only problem with the latter plan was that a car could zip up the ramp and clip her.

Gina tiptoed towards the yield sign. She halted and gasped.

The yield sign yanked its pole out of the grass. The sign pogoed towards Gina.

Gina spun around 360 degrees. What was she going to do? Run up the grassy roadside slope?

The yield sign reached Gina. It swung at her. She ducked. A swoosh passed over her. Unfortunately, she did not move fast enough. A corner of the sign cut through her blouse, scraping her shoulder.

Faltering backwards, Gina spotted a rusty tire iron. She swooped down, her back cracking, and picked it up.

“Come here!” she said to the yield sign.

The yield sign leaned to the side, as if a mugger cocking his head in puzzlement.

Filled with rage, Gina hopped forward and clocked the yield sign with the tire iron.

CLANG!

The left corner of the yield sign bent backwards. Gina smiled. The sign stumbled away from her, eventually falling down as if a batter pelted in the head by a 100-per-hour baseball.

Content with her swift victory, Gina dropped the tire iron. She looked up and down the highway. Still deserted, except for her Mustang. How could that be? Even though it was late, Route 636 was a main artery in the area. There should at least be some traffic.

Gina stanched that line of thinking. She heard a plinking sound. The median guardrail was freeing itself from its columns! And to make matters worse, the yield sign was standing up.

Oh, no!

Fully erect, the yield sign motioned as if to signal the guardrail over. Column-less, the guardrail slithered across the highway like a manic snake.

Gina picked up the rusty tire iron and sprinted up the roadside hill. Halfway up, she slipped and glimpsed back. The yield sign bounded up the hill, while the guardrail wasn’t far behind.

Gina reached the top of the hill. From here, she could see automobile headlights on I-95, and just past it, the Philadelphia International Airport. She reeled around. The yield sign and guardrail were almost on her. The yield sign was now trailing the guardrail. The guardrail moved with such serpentine speed, it tore up the grass it slid over.

Gina spun on her heel. She clutched the tire iron. There was no place else to run. The hill didn’t have another side, only a 30-foot drop to I-95. Should I jump and take my chances?

Gina lost her footing, dropping the tire iron. The guardrail tugged at her feet. She fell. But before her back hit the grass, the guardrail wrapped around her body, covering every part of her except her face.

The yield sign—left corner still bent back—hopped on top of the guardrail, above Gina’s groin. The yield sign stood there motionless for a few moments, as if taunting her. Gina squirmed, but the guardrail hugged her tighter than a boa constrictor strangling its prey.

Why is this happening to me? But, of course, Gina already knew. She was the one who persuaded her employer to halt construction on Route 636. If she had never said anything, the highway would have been completed and stretched for 20 miles instead of 5 kilometers.

The yield sign hopped closer towards Gina’s face.

“Please,” Gina said, licking her dry lips with a parched tongue, “if you let me go, I’ll make sure construction is reinitiated. The project could be completed in six months!”

The yield sign, still standing on the guardrail, turned away from Gina, as if weighing her offer. Gina, sweating, waited for a response. From I-95, she heard a horn honk and smelled truck exhaust. A plane passed overhead. The moment took on a surreal quality.

Then it was over.

The yield sign turned back around. Gina knew by the sign’s posture that the decision was not in her favor. Had it known she was lying?

The yield sign twisted to the right, as if Steve Carlton winding up for a strikeout pitch. The sign zoomed towards Gina’s skull in a deadly head-butt.

“Daddy,” Gina said, “help me!”

A flash of red and white filled Gina’s vision. Then, darkness.

[[END]]

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