#67 Overpass

by Kenneth Robbins

He swerved and compressed the acceleration petal. His Ford responded, speeding him across the overpass and away from the horror the stranger promised.

The staggering man, the frantic waving of his arms, the look of despair on his face and in his eyes, frightened Horace Beringer in a way he had not been frightened before. The pending loss of his job deserted him.

The man was dressed in tattered jeans, a loose fitting work shirt and untied shoes. His hair was mussed as if from a sense of not caring.

He came from the far end of the overpass, a shadow in the post-midnight haze, then entered the headlamps of Horace’s approaching Focus.

Horace decided to take the interstate home afraid the back way would be too deserted and bleak.

His Ford Focus awaited him. He was afraid it might not start in the sub-zero night air.

Horace left the office holiday party, not drunk but not sober. He had had only four beers and one traditional eggnog to make the evening bearable.

“You’re full of shit,” Horace protested fearfully. He knew who he was and did not need Steven McKaye to instruct him about his behaviors.

“Boss man told me so himself, Race, and the Boss man don’t lie,” the host of the party said.

“Scared—me? There’s no truth to that,” Horace said.

“You’re afraid of everything,” Steven McKaye said. “That’s why we’re letting you go after Christmas. A scared salesman is useless to us.”