The drive home

My neighbor’s shouts were muffled as I closed my apartment door and walked down the hall to the kitchen. I should have tried to speak with him. Maybe calm him down a little. Then again, I hardly know the guy. Better to let one of the other neighbors call the cops.
         With my left hand, I put my briefcase on the table and again using my left, I managed to find a bottle of whiskey and pour a glassful. My right hand was throbbing from the pounding I gave the dashboard. As I lifted the glass to my lips, my hand shook so violently that I spilled about a quarter of it down my shirt and tie. Carrie will be home from the late shift in a few hours. When she asks about the mess, I’ll explain how I caught my hand in the car door and needed a drink for the pain. She’ll want me to go to the hospital but I can’t do that. It will be hard enough lying to one person. I can’t deal with a bunch of questions from a doctor.
         I downed the rest of the drink and poured another. The shaking was noticeably less. I wondered if it was on the news yet. Ken across the street obviously knew already. I though about checking but the idea of turning on the tv and watching started my heart pounding. Would they be speculating about me? Would there be an “all points bulletin”?  They have been installing traffic cameras all over. Did they just use them for traffic or did they sometimes use enhancement technology to zoom in on license plates. Infrared vision if it was too dark? Nope. No television tonight.
         That stupid fucking bitch! Everyone’s in such a goddamn rush!
         I went to the window and pulled back the drapes a little. Ken may have been winding down or maybe he’d completely lost it. He was sitting cross-legged in the gutter, rocking back and forth. For some reason, he was clutching a pillow. I began to tear up looking at him. Whether from the booze or from the event itself, I could not tell. Drinking always made me emotional. A police car turned the corner and I closed the drapes.
         Seeing the police made me remember what I left on the passenger seat. I could not go out and get it now. Why didn’t I get rid of it before coming home? I thought about it a few times during the five or so miles from there to here but could not bring myself to touch it. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough. No burning or throwing in the lake. No burying deep in the woods. I’ll just take a trash bag from under the sink and use it to clean out the empty soda cans and ashtrays from the Acura like I do a few times a month. Then the bag goes in the can by the side of the house. The can goes to the curb next Tuesday and by Tuesday night when I come home to an empty can, this is over.
         Only the 7-eleven clerk knows about me buying it on the way home. Oh, why the hell did I do that! “A box of Marlboro Lights and this. It’s for my nephew. He’ll get a kick out of it”. Then it goes on the passenger seat and I actually forget about it until I see the car in my rearview just inches off my bumper. 70 mph on a bridge and I’m being tailgated! It caught my eye and I thought, “This will teach them a lesson! The’ll think twice about riding someone’s ass next time!” 
         I reached over and grabbed the water pistle that I bought for Billy. They make them look so real these days. Like a cop in a movie, I held the wheel with my left as my right arm extended over the back seat and I turned my head to sight it at her face. She was on a cellphone. That’s when I recognized her as Ken’s wife Cathy. I don’t think she recognized me. I think she only saw the barrel of the gun. Her eyes widened and then squeezed shut as she slammed on the brakes. The eighteen wheeler behind her never had a chance to slow and it blasted her through the guardrail and over the side of the bridge.