Ledman Pickup

Five

  Zoey drove a super mini compact car of the grayest gray and the drabbest interior. She could think of no good reason to waste money on vehicle decor. The car was a means to an end, and that was that. Even now in the dark she lamented the need to use it. Zoey had a fear of transportation that could be plotted on a graph, beginning with the necessity of walking, which was at least tolerable, if tiring. Slightly above that was walking fast, something she felt should never be required. If you were walking fast, then you had miscalculated somewhere along the line, otherwise, you would be on time, and walking at a normal pace.

  Manual wheeled transit, a category that included bicycles and skating, was absurd but justifiable. Motorized wheel transit was already on the borderline, but if it had to be done, buses were preferable to cars except that they never seemed to go where you needed to go, when you needed to go there. Cars would have to do in a pinch. Trains were pushing it. They were, how would she put it? Alarming. Everything else beyond the rails was simply out of the question. She would never, ever fly. The very idea was appalling. She didn't even appreciate it for birds, which were nothing but airborne nuisances. Ever since that sneak attack when she was a little child.

  She had thought of everything: clothes, snacks, laptop, phone. The car was waiting below in the garage. Lights were on in there and no one else was, thankfully. Her apartment complex was small but fully inhabited. Fortunately, it was civilized to the extent that people still respected the assignment of spaces. Only once in the seven years she'd occupied the place had her spot been stolen by some unlawful neighbor. She had left a caustic note. The incident was not repeated.

  Her beeper beeped the door open, and beeped again later to lift up the gate. It was already nine o'clock at night. She proceeded cautiously over the perilously cracked sidewalk in front of the garage. How many times she would have to complain to the management was still an open question, its answer currently resting at seventeen. Further along, Zoey had to wait at several traffic lights before finally getting out of town. She could never understand that. Whoever timed the lights had to know there was nobody out there now, so why should she have to sit and wait exactly twenty-seven seconds for nothing! If she had another life to live she would consider becoming a traffic engineer instead. She was certain she would excel at such a career.

  It was going to be a long night. Zoey did not believe in coffee, only in the power of the will. The highways would be easy going all night long, nothing but truckers and late night drunks. The radio might have helped to pass the time, but Zoey considered it superfluous. She had her thoughts to keep her company. Currently she was working on an exercise, a mental game to keep her wits intact. She would memorize a day, a whole day, every instant. She'd been working on that day for quite a while by now. It was not an actual day, but an ideal one, not perfect but essential. It would contain all elements in their proper durations. It wasn't glamorous or literary or especially remarkable. There would be some achievements, but relatively minor ones. There would be several setbacks, but nothing very drastic. Red lights would be among them. A beverage not quite right.

  She had planned to take a year to develop that single day, and so far she had filled many hours. She relived them in her mind, went back over the minutes and their occupying items. She had become attached to the day, which she thought of as The Day. No one else knew anything about it. She had ruled out writing anything down, even reminder notes. It had to be all in her head or nothing. There were phone calls with friends that never happened. Only she knew what they had talked about. There were things she had seen that no one ever saw. There was a project she'd been working on, but only during The Day. She had discovered defects in the code, imaginary bugs that would never be fixed. At times it felt so real she had nearly sent out emails, only to recall the fictitious nature of the task before her fingers reached the keyboard. She had smiled at those moments. Soon those smiles and those moments had also become a part of The Day.

  She managed to keep her mind on The Day and her eyes on the road throughout the long and lonely ride through San Antonio proper and out to the West through Texas into New Mexico. The hours passed by with the stripes on the road. She maintained an even fifty in the slow lane all the way. No need to overdo it. Twelve hours or so would be enough. Besides, if she arrived too early, the warehouse would not be open anyway, and the last thing she needed was to be hanging around with nothing to do in some sketchy unfamiliar district. Everything was proceeding according to plan, and that was all you could ask for.