A week in the life of a reluctant commuter.
I'm a commuter. Five days a week I travel 30 minutes north to Española, spending my days sitting in an office and writing copy, waiting to lunge out the door like Fred Flintstone when quitting time comes.
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My commute has ushered in a world of "adult" things that once seemed out of my grasp. For the first time in my life I have a car that's dependable enough to take outside city limits. In
the past five years I've killed two American cars and now I've set my sights on Japan. I thought maybe owning a foreign car would be like going to an ethnic restaurant-spicy, romantic, maybe a little exotic. It's all the same, though; four wheels, four doors. But I'm not much of a gearhead-I just push the pedal and go. Then, I get up the next day and do it all over again.
Monday
Mondays make me sick. At my high school there was a sign hanging in the chemistry lab that read, "People who look forward to Mondays more than Fridays are in danger of becoming a success."
I failed the class twice.
I can't look forward to Mondays, not after a travel-free weekend. Over Saturday and Sunday I forget the emotionally draining trek, the up-and-down journey that ends with me sitting in my office. I forget all about the terrifying pastel birds and rabbits and snakes that decorate the highway, the billboards advertising Don Ho, announcing Don Ho's cancellation, and the touring antics of other third-tier musical stars or comeback kids.
Heading toward work after the weekend, it's awkward. Everyone's tired. You can even see it on the faces of your fellow commuters-people hunch down in their car seats a little more on Mondays. You don't see people pretending to not sing along with their car stereos; they just stare straight ahead, looking in the distance for any sign of the weekend.
Tuesday
There's a song that goes, "Tuesday's just the same as Monday without the surprising parts" and I can't help but think of it each week. With Monday's awkwardness gone, everyone just sips their coffee or tea or gin and quietly goes about their day. Don't mention the weekend-you might jinx it.
Out on the road things don't change. You pass by the same discarded shoe, the same slumped and unrecognizable carcass, its blood a sticky smear on the pavement. The cars are anonymous-it's not like school where you get to know your classmates; you can't distinguish one car from the next except to categorize by Kerry-Edwardses or Viva Bushes. The traffic is like today's political atmosphere-fast-paced and dependent on oil. The opposing parties hardly seem to notice one another as they're changing lanes.
Wednesday
All of a sudden, there's the glorious hump of Wednesday. Mid-week comes and it seems there's hope after all. Some people are even smiling as they drive, sunshine lighting the way to work. With fall coming the mountains catch fire with color and drivers slow down to take it all in. If only all that concrete didn't cover the land, if only I didn't have to keep my eyes on the road.
I'm summer-sick of seeing the same thing every day, the brown hills, the green mountains. Fall offers the possibility of drastic change-Snow! Aspens! Fog!-and I find myself wanting to watch things die so I can see them reborn in the spring.
Wednesday is the week's fall. Things finally start to shift and it is beautiful.
Thursday
I've always thought I would die in a car crash, bursting through the guard rail and spilling over the edge of some craggy cliff into frozen black water. It's a vivid image, more premonition than fear, I'm pretty sure. Somehow this puts me at ease as I carve my path to Española though-I've never imagined myself crashing head-on into a casino. The dust swirling around my car as I speed through the maze of hills assures me there's neither lake nor river near the road to accommodate a watery grave.
Still, there's always the threat of death. On a day like Thursday, with the anticipation of Friday and the beloved weekend almost in my grasp, I can't help but feeling something's going to go wrong. Dying on a Thursday, being denied one final weekend, would be a slap in the face from the highway gods.
I feel antsy on Thursdays, a little on edge. My fellow drivers always seem to know something I don't. They've latched onto some elusive law of physics that states the faster you drive the quicker the weekend comes. I do my best to keep up because, who knows? Maybe they're right.
Friday
Even before I was a commuter I determined that it's dangerous to drive in (and around) Santa Fe. Sometimes I think it's bad luck to even think "Santa Fe" anywhere near a car. But when Friday comes I suddenly don't care. People cut me off, fail to use their signal or drive below the speed limit in the passing lane and I don't care. No matter how old I get there is nothing like the joy of Friday's arrival. The day is brighter and sharing the road with dozens of morons somehow seems worth it.
Even when the workday is dragging and I'm staring down the clock waiting for lunch everything seems great. When quitting time comes, the brief ecstasy of a "yabba dabba doo!" is tempered by a sudden sludge in time. The final drive home of the week is the longest of all. It's not psychological, either-the road physically stretches, the land loosens and splits open and doubles itself like cancer cells. The commute refuses to give up, demanding as much of my time as possible. It's an uphill trip, draining my fuel, my drive to start a weekend of forgetting. Then, I make it to the top and Santa Fe is laid out in front of me. I see an orange cloud of dust off in the distance. I see red lights turn green and all around me people are spreading out into the city. We're all going home.
