Left or Right

         Left or right. I sat at the intersection of Kendall and Henderson in a car which was already twelve years old when we first bought it. Six years later, much of its faded green had been traded for reddish brown rust. I was on my way to work on a foggy day, taking the same route that I always did. Kendall was a dead end and I stared at Mama Joe’s Pizza directly in front of me. To my left, barely visible through the mist, lay four tenths of a mile of bumpy asphalt and the factory which had employed me since I graduated from college. In the main building sat a brown wooden desk, two feet by five feet, in a six foot by six foot cubical. It was one of six cubicles on the third floor. I was one of six Associate Accountants. If I was lucky I would be a Senior Accountant one day but I didn’t have much hope for my future at that company. In reality I didn’t know how the plant was even still open. Nearly every job was redundant but I wasn’t about to point that out to anyone. There were already rumors that the company would be laying off half of the staff. As one of the youngest employees there was no doubt in my mind which half I would fall in should the time come.

         To my right lay a quarter mile of mom and pop shops and the interstate. I-95. A straight shot, without stops, all the way from Maine to Miami. I shifted in my seat and wrung the steering wheel with my hands. It was so easy to hop on that highway and go. Just a flick of the wheel and I could be halfway to Miami before anybody even knew I was gone. People at work might notice that if I didn’t show up. Probably not, though. My boss spent most of his time on the golf course and nobody else in the office cared. It wouldn’t be until I didn’t show up for dinner that my wife would notice and I wasn’t sure she’d care. All I had to do was turn right. I could go south and be in Florida by sundown. Or I could go north and find myself in New York City. I could even catch a flight to Europe. Or Japan. Or Tibet. There was nothing really stopping me from going anywhere I wanted. I didn’t have to have a responsibility or care in the world if I didn’t want to.

          I had made that trip a thousand times and they all melded together into a single fog. A thousand times I came to that stoplight as I made my way to work. And a thousand times I turned left. A thousand times I drove that quarter mile and parked in that half-full parking lot. A thousand times I had pressed the button for the third floor and stood in the five by five box with one or eight other people. A thousand times I sat in my black standard desk chair with lumbar support. A thousand times I logged into my computer and opened QuickBook. And a thousand times I looked at the four inch by six inch picture frame which sat on my desk. It was a sharp, black and white image of my wife, Abby, and me. In the picture I was twenty-five and she was twenty-four. It was from our honeymoon. In the picture we were staring into each other’s eyes, smiling.

         Abby and I met in college. It wasn’t a very interesting story. We met at a house party, went on one date then two. First I graduated then she did. I proposed to her one Saturday morning. I don’t really remember why I did. There was no epiphany that I knew I wanted to. I don’t remember ever thinking that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I don’t think she really wanted to spend the rest of her life with me. It was probably more that we just didn’t have anyone else. We probably thought that marriage was the next unchangeable, inevitable step in life. She wasn’t ecstatic with girlish emotion. She didn’t jump up and down. I don’t remember her tearing up with joy. She simply said, “Yes, John. Yes.”

         We were married eight months later in front of family, friends, and friends of friends. The wedding wasn’t cheap. Her Step-Father had plenty of money and paid for it all. It seemed like we spent every free minute over those eight months planning it to the detail. There were flowers everywhere; doves were involved at some point.

         Two months before that trip I discovered that she had been cheating on me. It was another typical story. I had never been a snooper. I didn’t steal any passwords, pay a private eye, or look through her text messages. But she didn’t log out of her e-mail one day and sure enough, it was open to a damning communication with a man named Hayden. I walked into the bedroom where she had been reading and asked her who Hayden was. She didn’t even look shocked. She told me that it was a man she had been working with. It had been going on for about three months and had been significantly more than risqué e-mails. She told me that she was sorry. She told me that she didn’t mean for it to happen, that she would put an end to it.

         I moved to a motel that night. The sheets were threadbare, the TV barely worked and there was a film of smoke coating the walls. I couldn’t afford anything else. After work every day I would go home to the motel, eat a frozen dinner, watch a few reruns on TV and drink myself to sleep. The weekends I would spend every extra penny I had in the bar across the street. The bartender was named John. Or Jim. He wasn’t the type that you’d talk to about your problems so I didn’t. Three weeks later, instead of driving to the motel after work I went home. I walked through the door just like any other day, took off my shoes and put them in the closet. I walked in the kitchen where Abby was making dinner. I must have picked a good day to come back because she was making baked ziti, my favorite. She told me that I was just in time, to sit down and she’d be done in a minute. So I sat down at my usual spot, placed the napkin which had been lying on the plate that was there across my lap, and waited.

She wasn’t the first to be unfaithful, though. Just three months before I found the e-mail I was sent to Miami with two other men from the Accounting Department and several more from other places in the plant. It was for a conference on the future of the company. It lasted for four days; there were shareholder meetings, focus groups, speeches by the CEO and President. That was where I met Anna. She had olive skin, jet black hair and, somehow, icy blue eyes. She was wearing a bright red white and green floral patterned dress with a plunging neck line the night I met her. I hate dance clubs or anything close to it but that night my co-workers convinced me. It was a trendy place, tightly packed, dark, with a base line that made it impossible to talk to anybody. Both of them headed straight for the dance floor when we got inside, trying to pick up women. I picked my way to the bar, ordered a Miller Lite, and leaned against it, surveying the crowd. There was a thick haze over the place from the humidity and I could barely see across the room. After only a few seconds, though, I caught my first glimpse of her, dancing with her four friends fifteen feet away. She kept dancing with her friends and I kept leaning on the bar. A few songs bounced by before I decided to take my chances and say hello. We yelled at each other over the music, we danced, but eventually we decided that it was too loud and we were out the door and walking on the beach. She carried her shoes in her right hand and I had my hands jammed in my pockets as we shuffled along.

“So what brings you to Miami?” She asked me lightly.

“How do you know I’m not from Miami?” I replied. I turned my head toward her and
smiled. She smiled back.

“There’s no way you’re from Miami. You’re not tan enough.”

I laughed. “Fair enough. I’m here for a conference. I’m an accountant.”

Her face wrinkled up but she still kept that smile on her face. “Ew. Why?”

“Why am I an accountant? Because it’s a good job. And I’m pretty good with numbers. And that’s what I went to school for.” I laughed again.

“I went to college for a half of a semester. That’s all I could take. I don’t do well with that kind of life. It’s too organized. I wanted to get out and experience the world. Every little bit it has to offer. Carpe Diem!” She threw her hands in the air and yelled out the last part.

“Don’t you have to have money to be able to experience life?”

“Sometimes. I paint. I’ve sold a few.”

“And that pays enough? I thought artists always starved?”

“What’s it matter where I get money from?” She asked. We walked in silence for several steps. “You are all about the numbers. You’re such an accountant.” She nudged me as we walked.

“You take that back.” I said as I nudged her back.

“Nope.”

“Fine.” We stopped walking and sat down on the beach, looking out over the ocean. There was a slight breeze in our faces and the stars were out but most of the view was blanched out by the light from the city. I sighed. “I don’t really enjoy being an accountant.” I leaned back on my elbows, she was hugging her knees with her head resting on them, turned towards me.

“I wouldn’t, either.”

“But… that’s who I am.”

“Why?”

“I already told you why.”

“Why don’t you quit?”

“Because I need to make a living somehow. I don’t have a skill like you that I can use when I need money,” We sat in silence again for a few
moments.

“So learn one,” she finally said.

I laughed again, “Just learn one.”

“Yeah, why not?”

“I’m not sure it works like that.”

“Says who?”

“Well, nobody I guess.”

“Why should you be unhappy? You seem to hate it so why do you have to stay? Just go and figure it out later.”

“Well, I’m also married.” I looked at her expectantly. I wasn’t sure how she was going to take that part.

“So? Take her with you. Or don’t.”

“Ah, I can’t just leave.”

I looked over at her and she looked back. She lifted her head off of her knees, leaned over and kissed me. I kissed her back. She returned her head to her knees and whispered “Yes you can.”

The little red Corvette behind me honked me out of my reverie. The light had finally turned green. I looked left, down towards my job and I looked right, towards the highway. A thousand times I’d been at this light and a thousand times I’d turned left. Left or right. I eased on the gas pedal and turned the wheel.