Buried By The Highway

Living Dream

"Success is not a destination, but the road that you're on. Being successful means that you're working hard and walking your walk every day. You can only live your dream by working hard towards it. That's living your dream."

                                                                                                        ~ Marlon Wayans

Langley, Virginia, United States
June 7th, 1989

Donald Weaver was screaming every curse word in his head, as his taxi navigated the morning rush hour on the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Had the alarm clock back in the motel not died, he would've been out an hour sooner. Instead, choosing between breakfast and a shower, he chose to starve instead of smelling like a hobo. Considering his new job, it was probably for the best.

After another grueling fifteen minutes in traffic, the taxi turned an exit. A minute later, the vehicle stopped.

"We're here, chief," the driver said.

Donald adjusted his glasses before peaking past the driver from the backseat, eyeing the gates up ahead by a hundred meters. "Aren't you, uh," he asked. "You know, pull up?"

The driver shook his head. "Nah man, I ain't goin anywhere near that place."

Donald closed his eyes and sighed. "Fair." He paid the fare and stepped out. "Thanks, sir."

The driver nodded before leaving Donald behind.

There he was, suitcase in hand, watching the taxi leave him at his new place of employment. Turned back to the gate, Donald began speed walking. He knew he was late.

Approaching, he saw the guard stepping out of the booth, as if waiting. Donald made an enthusiastic wave. "Good morning sir."

The guard nodded. "Morning."

Donald reaching in his jacket pocket and clumsily pulled out his wallet and handed his driver's license. "I'm Donald Weaver, sir. I'm a new hire."

The guard took the ID and inspected it with great scrutiny.

Donald felt his throat tighten and his palms sweat.

The guard nodded. "I'll call it in, verify you." He reached for the phone in the booth. "It'll be a few minutes."

"No problem, sir." Donald stood there, waiting. He felt his patience growing thin, scared that his tardiness would get him fired before he even began.

The guard hung up the phone and returned the license. "You're clear, Mister Weaver."

"Thank you, sir." Donald quickly pocketed his wallet before stepping past the gate. "I don't suppose you could tell me the quickest way to get to the entrance on foot."

"Just down the road, make a left at the second intersection."

"Thanks." Donald began speed walking once more.

Another fifteen minutes of moving at a brisk pace, feeling sweat form under his shirt and his glasses slipping off his nose, Donald was finally approaching the building to his new place of employment.

Walking through the parking lot, Donald felt his heart beat faster. He had no way of knowing how his boss will react to him being late. What would they say to him? Do to him? He shivered at the incessant thoughts.

In the twenty-seven years of his existence, he was probably going to mark this day as one of the worst. So much for good impressions, he figured. Being a long way from New Jersey didn't help either.