Mr. Wobert

The moon is full and high in the sky tonight; or so I hear. If you were in my vehicle with me, you would not see the gleaming moonlight. All you would notice is the hazy clouds that blanket the sky above, and the dense, grim fog that envelopes all. The only other sound, other than my strained breathing, is the light pitter-patter of rain that echoes through the cab. I can imagine the droplets of rains plummeting from the grace of the heavens above and shattering as they crash onto the roof of my car. It is not enough to be considered a downpour by any means, but just enough to draw my attention from my dire needs. But the aroma from the bottle at my side stirs me back. The glass is cold within my grasp as I take a sip; the liquid burns a little. I swallow and return the bottle to my side. Time to get on with it.

My fingers grip the keys that dangle on the steering wheel, and the engine ignites. The engine rumbles, spiking up and down in a thunderous roar, before it reaches the point of idling. The music of the engine serenades me, but it does nothing to ease my torment. I inhale for a moment, drawing a heavy drag from the cigar between my lips, and for a brief instant, the glow from the vice illuminates the dashboard. According to gauges, the tank is near empty and the mileage is high. It has been a longer-than-expected campaign up to this point. The winding roads, the undiscovered voyages, and driving-in-circles have taken their toll. However, remaining stagnant in this fog is undesirable. I flip a knob, and the car becomes less gloomy. The dashboard flickers to life with a dim glow, and the headlights radiate ahead of me. My foot presses downward on the pedal, and the car lurches forward into the unforgiving mist.

            I drive slowly through the grey fog. The beams from the headlights have trouble penetrating the dense miasma. There is no sense of direction as my hands turn the wheel. Am I going forward? Perhaps I’m going backwards. Is there even road underneath the bald tires? I haven’t a clue. Another puff on the cigar draws the toxin into my lunges. It provides warmth within my chest that is quite different than the chill within the cab. The following exhale blew the smoke into the dashboard. The fuel gauge is dropping further, and the fog is growing thicker. Am I ever going to reach the destination I crave?

There is more pitter-pattering on the roof as I push the vehicle on. Murky water splatters onto the windshield. The wipers slide across the glass, allowing my view to be not obstructed. Suddenly, more of the murky water splashes across the windshield. The wipers swing faster and faster, right and left, right and left, but they only seem to smear the liquid on the glass. It is much thicker this time; perhaps like tar or some other substance. Slowly the car comes to a stop as I apply the break. The gears shift into park, and after another swig from the bottle, I open the door to the misty, frigid air.

            The fog engulfs me and my transportation. The illumination from the headlights refracts off the fog and gives the area surrounding me a dim glow. The only sound in the air is the rumble of the motor under the hood.