Open Writing

The wretched alarm didn’t go off again. The radio says eight fifteen. The weather report is predicting a fine day. It’s pouring rain, I can’t find my umbrella, there’s someone at the door, and I’m running thirty minutes behind schedule.

I’m seriously late for work again. The office Gestapo will be standing at his door as usual, tapping his Rolex and glaring at me.
One of these days, I’m going to get up at five o’clock, just to see his miserable face when I’m early.

The old woman sitting on the apartment building steps grins knowingly. “I see you’re late again.”

On the pavement I fall in step with the other walkers. We nod politely, like competitors at the start of a marathon, aware that it’s not the winning, but the arrival time that counts.

We beat down the road and the pace quickens. Some jostle for prime grid positions as we near the lights, while the time trialists in their shorts and trainers sprint through the bunch. Someone at the backs yells. “Watch what ya doin’ with that briefcase Mate.” This sends a light snigger through the group, then we settle down again, preparing for the transverse of the red and greens.

I’m pleased with my pace, confident I’ll come through the next set of lights with four, maybe five minutes to spare.

The first set of lights is a breeze. We come up to them at a steady rate, and cross without changing step. The whole crossing takes less than a minute. The second set of lights?…………..WELL!
Motorists here think they’re in some “B” grade action movie. Left or right doesn’t mean a darned thing to them. They look upon us pedestrians as target practice.

We stand waiting for the green “GO” light. I now calculate I have exactly two and a half minutes to get across the street, up the side street and in the office door to avoid the Rolex tap.

Standing there waiting eats up thirty seconds. The tension is mounting, and a few begin nudging to the edge of the foorpath, while others fidget nervously, mentally preparing for the ten- second dash. One foolhardy young sapling shoots out into the melee, only to be hooted and shouted at by the psychotic drivers. Someone laughs. The rest of us stand there smiling, smug in the knowledge that we at least, are playing by the rules of the game.

We’re off. The light flashes green, and we leap forward, like enthusiastic square dancers. Some surge forward catching the slip stream from those in front, while others veer diagonally across the road, nimbly side stepping those coming from the other side. Of course anyone with time to spare, casually saunters across, risking being run over in the next wave of traffic.

I’ve made it. I arrive, clutching the office door, spent but elated. I’m not only on time, I have twenty three seconds to spare.