Freshwater Literary Journal 2021

John Sheirer Exit Approaching forty, Dave Alastair decided it was time to change. He was ready to find a real relationship after years of short but intense flings that always started randomly and ended badly. He was ready to start taking care of his body instead of drinking away his evenings and limiting his exercise routine to weekend softball games. He was ready to try to understand the world around him after following whatever politician wielded the best insults. He was ready to stop blaming his own lack of advancement at work on the people who earned the promotions he thought he deserved.

The night before, Dave decided he was ready to make the effort he had assumed other people were making. He just hadn’t been able to commit himself—until now.

Unfortunately, Dave found himself running late for this morning’s projectmanagement training session that he decided was the first step toward those life changes he was certain he was ready to make. That’s why he took the curving exit ramp leaving Interstate 40 close to twice the posted speed limit. He was annoyed with himself for slightly oversleeping and delaying his new program of self-improvement, and his irritation weighted his heavy foot on the gas pedal. So it was almost a miracle that he was able to stomp on the brake and stop just a dozen yards short of the minivan lying upside-down halfway along the ramp, its front wheel still spinning.

His seatbelt dug into his chest through his suit jacket, shirt, and tie as the car skidded sideways, tires screaming on the pavement. Random papers, fastfood breakfast wrappers, coins, and other trivial objects flew forward from all parts of the car, including something heavy and hard that he couldn’t identify as it struck behind his right ear, pinging his brain like a random text message.

His cell phone impacted the windshield and landed face-down on the passenger-side floor. Dave could tell without looking that the phone’s face had shattered. Singed rubber burned his nostrils.

Then he saw her. The woman crawled out from the overturned driver’s side of the van, her dark hair in disarray and half her shirttail pulled from her jeans. She stood on wobbly legs, staggered forward for thirty feet, and knelt on the pavement.

A solid six, Dave thought. And then he mentally slapped himself. Rating women by their appearance was another character trait he knew he should change.

Dave took his seatbelt off and opened his door almost before he realized he was moving. He ran toward the woman and skidded on his smooth dress shoes like she was home plate and he was trying to beat a strong throw from the outfield.

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