I'm Late, I'm Late, For a Very Important Date

This is a work of fiction, well...most of it!

Immediately after George Clooney swore his undying love for me and lowered his lips to mine, I woke up. Another fantastic dream interrupted by the incessant beeping of the alarm clock. I hit the snooze button, rolled over, and squeezed my eyes shut. By then, the fickle George had moved on to his next conquest. I threw back the blankets and headed for the shower. Today was the day I would present my advertising ideas to the Muckity Mucks from Douglas Morton Company. I couldn’t be late or they would give the account to Jonas, my arch rival.

Of course the doors were frozen shut on my piece of crap car, so I dumped a pitcher of lukewarm water along the edge where the roof meets the door. After a few healthy tugs, the door swung open, knocking me off my feet. I got up, brushed the snow off my coat, and climbed in. I turned the key while saying a silent prayer the thing would start on this icy, cold morning. After a few complaints, the engine came to life.

Reversing was easy, going forward wasn’t. I pushed on the accelerator, but instead of going forward, the car continued backward, bumping into Old Man Tate’s mailbox. I heard a crash and a crunch. I would stop by after work and offer to pay for the damage. Once the car found the grass on the side of the road, I was able to pull forward, slowly. After only one 360° turn, I made it to the main road. As I waited at the stop sign, one of those nice State trucks flew by, spraying a wall of salt water slush over my car. I switched on the wipers and turned right. The highway was clear, so I pushed harder on the accelerator. I checked my watch again. Baring any difficulties along the way, I would be on time.

The second the thought of being on time came into my head, I heard the train whistle. Unfortunately, the tracks crossed the highway at the edge of town. Since the speed limit was 30 mph and our equivalent of Barney Fife loves to catch speeders, I kept my foot from smashing the accelerator into the carpet. It’s a good thing, too. As I passed Mrs. Barrett’s Emporium, I saw Barney hiding behind his favorite cedar tree. I waved. He didn’t wave back. The train whistle blew again.

The minute Mr. Fife disappeared in my rear view mirror, I sped up. I could see that train’s eye getting closer. I feared the gates would close before I reached the crossing. So far, so good. I crossed my fingers and focused on the McDonald’s sign on the far side of the tracks. The faster we went, the more that old bucket of bolts rattled and banged. If only it would hold together until I snagged the Morton account. A mere twenty feet from the crossing, the red lights began flashing and the gates started down, missing my car by an inch or two. As the road curved around, I shook my fist at that nasty old train. Seems it’s always lurking around trying to cut me off. This time I was the victor!

Only six more miles and I would pull into the parking lot of the spectacular Triton Towers, the home of Douglas Morton Company. Old faithful voiced its complaint by emitting a loud knocking sound, but that old car picked up the pace. Two miles outside of town, traveling at a steady pace of 80, okay, probably closer to 90 mph, I picked up a tail. I checked the time. If I slowed down, I would be late and I couldn’t afford to be late.

A combination of red and blue lights flashed behind me. I passed two more Mayberry types. They lit up like Christmas trees and fell in behind Mr. Fife. We were officially a high speed parade. By the time I could see the parking lot, I heard the whomp, whomp, whomp of helicopter blades overhead. I turned into the entrance on two wheels and came to a screeching halt in front of the building.

Grabbing my briefcase, I hopped out of the car and raced up the steps. I heard tires squealing behind me, but didn’t take the time to see how far back they were. I skipped the elevator and took the stairs two at a time. By the time I reached the fourth floor, I could feel Barney’s hot breath on my neck. Instead of stopping at reception, I shoved my way into the conference room, just as the clock struck nine. I wasn't late, I was right on time.

Before I could pat myself on the back, Barney caught my arm. He whirled me around, slammed me up against the table where all the Muckity Mucks were seated, and clicked the handcuffs in place.

Mr. Morton himself was seated at the head of the table, “Ms. Fairchild I presume.”

Between wincing and trying to breathe, I gasped, “Yes, sir.”

“I’m impressed with your realistic presentation. Hiring policemen was a brilliant move. I think your advertising ideas are perfect for our new line of sports cars. Have the contract on my desk tomorrow morning.”

***

After being read my rights, photographed, and fingerprinted, Barney allowed me to make one phone call.

“Mr. Winslow. I got the account. Now, would you send someone down here to bail me out?”

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