An American Dream

Sam hated his job, but even more he hated the commute than his already hateful job. He worked in insurance, something he never dreamed of doing, and he couldn't help but wonder at the cruel irony of having to drive an hour and a half on an ugly interstate to get somewhere he didn't want to go to do something he hated. The American Dream is nothing other than a Darwinian struggle of life and death in Nature’s cruel and demanding world. Man, he thought. What an evocative metaphor! This comparative literature degree really comes in handy.

He sighed. I should have studied something else in college.

Rounding the curve, a billboard advertising Marlboro cigarettes appeared over a small hill covered in sickly green grass. "Man," he said to himself. "I'm moving to flavor country. This one sucks." He lit a cigarette, not an easy task whilst driving 70 mph, a speed at which his '92 white Chevy Corsica shuddered and shook as it tried to fulfill its heartless taskmaster's demands. He was listening to an Ace of Bass tape. It was in the tape deck when he bought the car used a couple years ago, and the tape deck was broken so he couldn't get it out. Every time he started the car, it would start playing automatically and wouldn't stop as long as the car was running. He hated Ace of Bass, but it was better than listening to his own thoughts, so he kept the volume up. It disturbed him that, as he began to memorize the lyrics, he began to actually like it. A little.

The car hit a pothole. Damn, he thought as he tried to keep from bouncing onto the shoulder of the highway. "Easy there, Bessie," he said as he patted the dashboard to calm his car into submission. But Bessie began to squeal and make loud flapping sounds and shook even more than normal. Damn damn! He eased the car over to the side of the road, swerving as he did so and gaining several angry honks from the sexier cars trying to avoid hitting him. A woman with long blonde hair and Gucci sunglasses mouthed unpleasant words and gave him the finger as her H2 roared past, leaving Sam and his pussy-ass manhood and his pussy-ass car with its pussy-ass flat tire alone and dejected in that weird grass that grows only along the sides of interstate highways. Angry, he threw his cigarette down, where it burned a hole in the upholstery of the passenger seat and fell to the floor. Shit! He leaned over quickly to pick it up, banging his head on the steering wheel as he sat back up.

After getting out of the car, he found the jack and a tire iron in the trunk covered in some weird greasy shit and that purple padding one finds in the trunks of old cars. The padding looked chewed up, like some small animal had made a nest out of Bessie at one point. His suspicions were confirmed upon further inspection by the mouse shit that littered the whole trunk and the mini donut spare tire. He lit another cigarette. It began to rain. But is was purple. The rain. Purple rain. He looked up and saw a billboard. Gin ‘n’ juice? Purple rage?

…TO BE CONTINUED (by one of you. I’m not finishing this story. This is going to be a multiple author serial thing.)