Ain’t Coming Back for It, Like Goodwill

On her commute home, she had been determined to figure out what had gone wrong in her spreadsheet. It struck her as she waited (not patiently) in the middle lane of traffic in her 1996 Honda Accord for the light to change. The formula had to be wrong in the last column. She could put the amended total in the quarterly report. Only two rights and a left remaining after a two hour drive home. She could move on to mentally solving the next problem on her to do list.

But when light changed, she went nowhere. With horns blaring behind her, she sat idly wondering why she didn’t see the gas light go on her dashboard thirty miles ago.

If only she had gotten gas on the way to work. If only she didn’t have a long commute. If only she didn’t have to juggle two jobs, one where she had worked three years to please an un-pleaseable boss, and a freelance contract that she dreaded and only had time for on Sundays. If only she had a fixed rate mortgage for her fixer upper condo instead of one that was variable. If only her long distance boyfriend hadn’t broken up with her.

Would a life with those differences be better than the one she was living now? She wasn’t sure, but she figured she’d feel a hell of a lot better.

She felt the focus for her impending midnight deadline for the report leach out of her. She no longer had energy to care. So she grabbed her purse, got out of her car, startling the driver of the Range Rover that had been honking at her.

And she locked her door, and walked away — purposefully.

The driver of the Ranger Rover and her passenger, another woman, eyed the petite woman in a business suit stride away from her car.

“What on earth…” the driver sputtered.

“She snapped,” offered the passenger. “On drugs maybe.”

The driver threw her a look. “Girl, please. Does she look like a druggie to you?”

The passenger nodded to the petite woman, who now was crossing the parking lot, “She’s done with that hunk of junk.”

“Maybe she ran out of gas,” the driver ventured as she pulled around the Honda Accord.

The passenger took a more pragmatic view. “Nah, she’s done. She ain’t coming back for it. Like Goodwill.”

Unbeknownst to the women in the Range Rover, the petite woman in a business suit entered a building where the golden arches above the facade welcomed her with no judgements.

She hoped a McDonald’s ice cream cone would make her feel better.

filmmaker + photographer + writer

filmmaker + photographer + writer