Portrait of a Commuter [Unfinished]

He raises his ritual morning Starbucks cup to his lips, takes a single sip and grumbles to himself. "Moronic barista got it wrong". Jim is on a complexity kick; his life is complicated so why shouldn't he inflict the same on everyone else. Today on a stroke of genius he ordered a five shot venti, two-fifths decaf, ristretto shot, one pump vanilla, one pump hazelnut, breve, one sugar in the raw, with whip, carmel drizzle on top, free poured, four pumps mocha. The barista forgot the caramel drizzle. It wasn't the lack of drizzle that irked him, but rather the incompetence. "So what there were more cars than length to the drive through. My hard earned money should equate to the product I paid for", he thought to himself. He toys with the idea of driving back, but he is already running late and each minute weighs heavily on him.

Arriving at a red light he glances around spitefully, "Look at them... soccer moms in SUVs funded by the work of their husbands, kids in sports cars funded by trust funds. Men like me do all the work." He sneers and pats his shirt pocket before withdrawing a pack of cigarettes and accompanying lighter. Jim throws subtle glances of disdain at surrounding motorists though his dark-tinted windows while dangling a yet-unlit cigarette from the corner of his mouth. The traffic beings to move before he has the opportunity to light his cigarette. Jim drops the clutch, launching forward with an emphatic roar from his BMW, eager to meet the next red light and light-up. Barely through the intersection, traffic stops abruptly and Jim is forced to skid to a halt. "What the fuck!?" he shouts, slamming his hands on the steering wheel. New warmth on his pants prompts him to look down- a wet blob of whip mocks him. "Lovely... at least it didn't get on the seat". Seconds turn into minutes and with no proper means to clean up the mess, the whip is now a dark splotch on Jim's pants. He shifts in his seat, checks the time on his dash, and then flings open the car door.

The wind whips past blowing his tie ajar as Jim marches past stopped cars. "Whoever disrupted my drive is going to pay", Jim is on the warpath. He sees the other drivers as obstacles: obstacles to his commute, obstacles to his day, obstacles to his paycheck, and ultimately obstacles to his life. After a frigid march, he reaches the front of the line and there it is: an old man in a car, both from circa the dawn of time as far as Jim is concerned. The four-way hazard lights taunt Jim. He grasps a key and drags it along the off-white paint of the man's car until he reaches the driver side window. A woman in the car previous in line touches up her makeup scarcely aware of what is happening. The driver's eyes are shut, his head skewed to the side, white whips of hair just barely touch the window. With no hesitation, Jim raps on the window.

There is no response. The old man's car is still running but the old man is not -- Jim hasn't quite caught on. He bangs on the window again and again the man gives no response. "Asshole is just going to ignore me...” Jim yanks on the door handle.