Robert is a highway construction worker.
That’s all he’ll ever be. Me? I’m headed for the top. Fifteen cubicle-bound years of late-night emails, awkward Teams meetings, and strained smiles have finally paid off; and today, the most important day of my life, I’m on my way to the meeting where I will be promoted to one of our company’s assistant vice presidents.
I mean, I will be, once this traffic starts moving. It seems like Robert — or whatever his name is — is shit at his job, because I’ve been staring at the rusted out-back of a 2002 Ford F150 for two and a half hours. My only benchmark of progress has been a dandelion in the ditch beside me. Against all odds, it’s pushed its way between an old Wendy’s bag and a Sprite bottle full of piss to plume out in a brilliant, cotton-white bloom. Two and a half hours ago, the flower was aligned with the hood of my car. Now, thanks to Robert’s tireless efforts, it’s aligned with the driver’s side mirror.
I roll down the window and lean my head out, trying to get a quick hit of fresh air. It’s a sweltering eighty-five-degree day, and the highway air hangs stagnant, thick and muggy. I spot Robert, a quarter of a mile up the road, slowly plodding his way down the line of stopped cars. Whatever his plan is, it’s entirely unclear. Every few steps he readjusts his too-big pants, and wipes the sweat off his brow. I lean back into my car thanking God I had the sense to choose the white-collar path, and crank up the air conditioning.
Itching for something to entertain myself with, I reach for my coffee and give it a quick sip. Ethiopian dark roast, bought whole-bean from my local coffee shop, ground daily. I own the best god-damned to-go cup in the nation (as rated by Consumer Reports), but it can only do so much; and no bean origin or brew method can save a lukewarm cup. $50 spent just for it to sit in my mouth like dirty water.
I force a swallow and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My carefully gelled hair is beginning to fall flat, and the tiniest buds of sweat are appearing on the fabric under my armpits.
“Come on, Robert,” I say, as if he can hear me. I try to fix my hair as best as possible, check my glove compartment for old fast-food napkins I can stick under my armpits. It would be unbecoming, in my opinion, of an assistant vice president to show up to work in such a state.
I hit my horn a couple times, joining the cacophony around me, just to express my frustration. I fiddle around with the radio, but it’s just gospel preachers and Christian Rock. I drum my fingers on the wheel. I try to parse out the meaning of the Ford F150’s vanity plate, “LV2BC”. Love the Birth of Christ? Live to be Cool? Las Vegas to British Columbia?
I look out the window again. Robert is getting closer, and I can now see him more clearly. Slightly overweight, wearing a stained, hole-filled orange t-shirt under his high-vis vest. His heavy, muddy boots crunch down on the dry grass lining the roadway. A cigarette hangs from his mouth. He takes it out, flicks it on the ground, and stomps it. I keep my eye on it for a moment, just to make sure the whole median doesn’t go up in flames. What a careless man, I think, how reckless. No wonder we haven’t moved in hours.
My phone lights up and begins to buzz. Immediately, I pick it up, so grateful for something to do that I don’t bother to check the caller ID. “Hello,” I say, “James Harmon, sales.”
“Hey, Jimmy, it’s Mark.”
“Oh!” I say. Mark, my supervisor, the one meant to promote me at today’s company-wide meeting. I glance around my car, unsure what I’m looking for, and settle for fiddling with the clasp on my briefcase. Quietly, it clicks. “Hey, sorry about the delay. I left a message with your secretary.”
“Yes, Jean told me you were stuck in traffic,” Mark says. His voice, as always, is frustratingly monotone. I click the clasp a little faster. “You, uh, missed the meeting.”
“Oh, dangit,” I say, trying to match Mark’s neutrality. I’m desperate to give him what he wants: laughing? Crying? A plea for forgiveness? If only I knew. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.” I force out a laugh. “What a way to start out as AVP, huh?”
I click the clasp faster. It’s louder now, and I’m starting to worry that Mark can hear it.
“Yeah, about that,” Mark says, “listen. No hard feelings, but I gave the role to McLain.”
“What?” My mind is reeling, too fast to come up with any response that doesn’t sound stupid, whiney, and childlike. All I can say is, “but you promised.”
“Well, you weren’t here,” Mark says.
“It’s not my fault.” The clasp seems to be getting louder and louder, metal grinding against itself. It merges with the distant sounds of saws and jackhammers, the symphony of car horns, the nearing thud of Robert’s steps.
“It just would’ve been a bad look,” Mark sounds frustrated. Like I’m the one ruining his day. “Listen, there’ll be another slot opening up in a year or two, when Fischer retires. You’re my top–”
The clasp on my briefcase shatters. Without thinking, I hang up my phone. There are tiny pieces of cheap metal in my hand, burning hot under the sun. I roll down my window to toss them away. Robert has reached my car.
His face is aged. Crow’s feet, smile lines, all covered in dust. His clothes are dirty, and he has a certain smell around him, sweat and cigarettes. From this close, he looks almost like a Bill, or a Frank, or maybe even a Jimmy.
Robert nearly passes by my car without acknowledgement, but then, he stops. He bends down and picks the dandelion. He doesn’t seem to mind it when his callused hand brushes the Sprite piss bottle as he does. Robert has a cross-stamped wedding ring, and a picture of his kids in a tiny silver frame around his neck. He straightens and turns to me.
“Hey, brother,” he says. His voice is raspy, his breath is coffee-tinged. He has a few gray hairs poking out of his hard hat. “Sorry for the delay.” He almost sounds like he means it. “This one’s for you, man.”
He blows away the dandelion’s seeds. They hover in the air for a moment before falling, slowly, to the ground. Robert smiles at me. I do not smile back, and he walks on. I turn away, close my eyes, and lay on the horn. I do not stop.
